


Light of the Moon

by Maloreiy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Drama, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-02-23 21:42:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 69,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13199115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maloreiy/pseuds/Maloreiy
Summary: King Riddle needs a bride, and he has declared he will marry whoever is smart enough and strong enough to solve his magical riddle.Written for the Tomione Fest, hosted by the Tomione fanfics Facebook group. Tied for the winner of Best AU, and tied for the runner-up of Best Cover Art.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Tomione_Fest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Tomione_Fest) collection. 



> Beta: brandinm05
> 
> This story originally had a word limit of 50k for the competition, and had only 15 chapters and the epilogue.
> 
> If you have read the competition version, please note that the story (including the ending) is mainly the same. There are some minor expansions in the form of several extra MIDDLE chapters. Those chapters were added on towards the latter third of the story, beginning with Chapter 14. So if you want to read just the “new” version, you can start fresh, or start from Chapter 14. Again, I stress, the ending chapters are the same.
> 
>  
> 
> _Dedication: This story is dedicated to Ariel Riddle, who not only peer-pressured me into this Fest and single-handedly wrangled me onto the Tomione ship, but never wavered in her support. Even when I was struggling to finish the expansions post-Fest she inspired me and motivated me and was so enthusiastic about this story that I think she dragged it across the finish line herself._
> 
>  
> 
> **Warnings: This story is rated T for an instance of torture, as well as light references to murder, torture, slavery, unethical behavior and some other general adult themes. It contains neither explicit violence nor explicit sexual situations.**

The first thing she noticed when she entered the city was how clean it was. The streets were plain brick or cobblestones, not a single one missing or out of place. There was no sign of the waste and refuse piled up against the walls of the buildings, or littering the carriageways, that usually marked the streets she traveled back home in Brittania.

Hermione Granger glanced about her, impressed at the cleanliness and order that she could see wherever she looked. Knowing that the country of Ophidia was solely a Wizarding society, completely devoid of Muggles, she had expected the country’s capital, Lagus, to be much like Wizarding London.

London was cold and rainy, which meant it was constantly muddy, and while the Muggles used modern technology to keep their part of the city decent, the Wizarding world seemed to prefer the dirtiness and squalor that had marked medieval times. She could never understand how a society that literally had magic at their fingertips could care so little about basic hygiene and aesthetics.

Perhaps it was being the child of two dentists, but she tended to notice and frown upon those things. The merest snap of their fingers could keep their teeth from rotting out of their heads, but no one seemed to think that eventuality was worth worrying about.

She was constantly nagging her two best friends to pay closer attention to such details. Is a Mouth-Refreshing Charm in the morning really too much to ask?

Hermione shook her head at thoughts of the two friends she’d left behind. Throughout their time together at the highly esteemed School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogwarts, the three had been inseparable.

In the years since graduating, Harry and Ron had settled quite nicely into their new lives as adults, obtaining respectable jobs and courting respectable witches—or as close as they could get, anyway. Hermione, though, couldn’t focus on what she wanted to do with her life. She thought she wanted a job at the Ministry, and she had that, but she grew tired of trying to push legislation through the mountains of red tape. Wizarding society did not want to change; it was content to stay exactly where it had been, quite happy for the last three hundred years, thank you very much.

She’d tried education, had even taught at Hogwarts for a year. While she found that helping to shape the brilliant young minds of the next generation was extremely gratifying, her life was still missing _purpose_.

She couldn’t help but feel that she was meant to use her magical and mental powers for something _bigger_ , something _more._ She had jokingly been dubbed ‘The Brightest Witch of the Age’ by her professors, but she felt like she was moldering away pushing parchment in a government office or harassing a bunch of students to complete their homework.

With a sigh, she stopped walking and pulled a worn piece of parchment out of the pocket of her robes. For what was probably the thousandth time, she read the words there.

_Athanasius Marvolo Riddle, King of Ophidia,_

_in search of a Bride of special Magical Talent and Strength,_

_invites all Witches of marriageable age within the Wizarding Community,_

_to a Contest of Magical Power._

_The winner,_

_she who proves to be the Strongest and Smartest_

_by solving a Magical riddle,_

_as presented by the King Himself,_

_will be declared the next Queen of Ophidia._

_Please present this invitation to the House Steward at Castle Marvolo for accommodations and registration._

Harry and Ron thought she was completely bent for traveling to Ophidia to compete to be a queen. They’d howled with laughter when she’d shown them the parchment.

They didn’t understand that while the challenge itself certainly piqued her interest, it wasn’t nearly as enticing as the prospect of being a Queen where magical strength and intelligence were the most sought-after qualities in a ruling monarch. It wasn’t that she dreamed of being Queen, no, she’d never had those goals, not even as a young girl. It was the idea of what she could _do_ with a country that wanted to grow, progress, and use its magic to accomplish some good in the world.

The minute she’d read the missive, something had called out to her. Something inside of her tingled in recognition that this was the big _something_ that could make all of her training and all of her studying of some use to society. It was a shame she couldn’t have made such an impact on her own countrymen, but she was prepared to adopt a new country, a new people—much like she’d done before when she left the Muggle world for the Wizarding one—who could embrace her ideas and plans for the future.

 _If_ she won, of course.

Her research on the Kingdom of Ophidia indicated that they prided themselves greatly on their magical heritage, the royal family of Marvolo claiming to be the descendants of Ptolemy himself. Founded on a belief of separation from Muggle society, magic was freely used, studied, and developed.

It was strange to think of a country that had no Muggles; that was, in fact, completely unknown to Muggles. She was always surprised to see it on Wizarding maps—a small country landlocked right in between several other European countries whose names and capitals she’d memorized as a small child. Of all the extraordinary things she’d learned since discovering she was a witch, the discovery of a Wizarding nation hidden in Europe shouldn’t have been any more surprising than the initial discovery of witches and wizards living hidden among Muggles. But to Hermione, the country and its very existence had always been uniquely fascinating.

Crossing the border had been extremely interesting. Even with a magical passport, all visitors were stopped and examined at the border. Though the outpost between Francia and Ophidia had a strong Muggle-Repelling Charm on it and should have been impossible for a Muggle to see, she was still required to prove that she was a witch by performing a few basic spells. Her wand was subject to verification, and a Peace-Bonding spell was placed on it to limit the type of curses and hexes she could cast. She was assured it would be nullified upon her exit from the country.

In addition, she’d submitted to a brief medical examination and then been asked to wait for two hours in a quarantine room to ensure she was not carrying a magical contagion and was not under the effects of a Polyjuice Potion.

She had, of course, had absolutely no trouble, and had been very careful to budget plenty of time to complete the entry procedure.

Hermione thought it was rather refreshing, actually, to know that they were so strict about the type of person who could enter the country, and to know that visitors were restricted from causing harm. She honestly didn’t see any reason she should need access to those curses and hexes that were currently denied to her.

Presumably, she would have access to everything she needed to solve the riddle.

She’d wondered at length about what she ought to bring with her on her journey, what might be useful when facing such an unknown challenge. In the end, she’d settled on all of her best gowns, her most comprehensive books on magic, and the rarest tomes in her collection.

She’d spent her life studying magic. Surely if she wasn’t already well-prepared, reading one more book couldn’t possibly make much of a difference, so she brought very few with her. Based on everything she’d read about Ophidia’s schooling system, a Hogwarts education was very much on par with the average citizen’s, and Hermione’s education had been far more than basic.

She was as ready as she was going to be.

The ball of light she had cast that served as a directional spell, turned down another street, and she followed it, gasping suddenly as the view opened up in front of her, allowing her to catch her first glimpse of the castle.

She’d known it would be beautiful; there was something so lovely about all castles no matter what state they were in. Even the ones that were slowly falling in disrepair had their own charm. But this one was truly lovely.

The white stone sparkled in the sunlight, almost as if a thousand house-elves hand-washed it daily. From the tall turrets she could see flashes of green that must be the huge stained-glass windows she’d read that the castle was famous for.

King Riddle was fond of pretty things and was known to be a huge patron of the arts. His castle was filled with amazing relics of the past—paintings, tapestries, sculptures, musical instruments—as well as several masterpieces that had been commissioned by him directly.

She hoped that she’d get ample opportunity to examine some of them for herself before she left.

Assuming, of course, she didn’t win, in which case the entire castle would be hers.

Hermione shook her head, trying to clear it of those thoughts. It was easy to get lost in thought when she was facing the almost unfathomable idea of becoming a powerful and influential queen, with servants and money and a whole kingdom of people looking up to her.

If she spent too long dwelling on those things, she’d lose her focus on solving the riddle.  She had no doubt some of her competition had made exactly that same mistake: thinking too much about what they wanted out of winning, rather than how they were going to win.

Hermione had a theory that the key to solving the riddle was knowing about King Riddle himself. How could you grow up with a name like ‘Riddle’, the surname apparently from his father who had been Prince Consort to the late Queen, and not be delighted by riddles? It didn’t surprise her that he chose to make such an important decision based on something as cleverly discriminating as an incredibly difficult riddle.

But since he was presenting the riddle, the answer would likely be something that would suit his own sense of art, magic, strength, and any other qualities or beliefs that he held dear.

She wondered whether being Muggle-born would be an advantage or a disadvantage in this case. In school and in her job it had sometimes allowed her to find solutions by looking at the problem from a different perspective. But sometimes it had hindered her in understanding the logic of the Wizarding mind.

Of course, sometimes she thought that was because there _was_ no emphasis on logic in the average Wizarding mind. They relied so heavily on charms and spells and innate magic to do the impossible, even predict the future, that they rarely analyzed how and why _exactly_ magic worked. That was what made Hermione different. She didn’t just accept the reasons she was given, she dug and dug until she found the nugget of truth that she could use and shape to her own needs.

From her research, she believed that Athanasius Marvolo Riddle, King of Ophidia, was a logic-oriented mind. He prized intelligence equally as high as magical ability. He made decisions for his country that, though sometimes harshly judgmental of ‘inferior’ beings, had a simple effectiveness that Hermione admired very greatly.

Violence and crime were almost entirely eliminated. Food, shelter, and employment were available to everyone. Sickness as a result of poverty was unheard of, and most other things could be healed magically if they were treated in time. The literacy rate of his subjects was virtually 100%, and being as they were all of Wizarding blood, their magical literacy—both control and understanding of basic magic—was as well. Their schooling scores consistently outstripped all the other Wizarding societies. Sometimes she’d hear it joked about that the only thing Riddle couldn’t solve was death. Well, and the problem of the existence of Muggles, of course. Although, it was generally agreed that he had certainly made the problem of the existence of Muggles _someone else’s_ problem by not allowing them within the borders of his country.

If Hermione was completely honest with herself, just reading about the brilliant king who had brought his country such progress in such a short period of time, created within her an excitement that she likened to fascination but was discovering might actually be something more.

After she’d finished regaling Harry with yet another story of what King Riddle had done, he’d said, “Anyone would think you were in love with this bloke. He can move the moon and the stars, yeah?”

She’d sputtered an angry retort, of course. But she couldn’t deny to herself that the prospect of getting to meet King Riddle and talk to him directly had her extremely…intrigued. Excited, even. She didn’t even dare contemplate the prospect of actually marrying him.

A blush crept up her cheeks, but she quickly shook it off as she approached the gates of the castle, the directional spell abruptly winking off now that she’d arrived.

Assessing her surroundings, she noticed an officious-looking wizard manning the gate station, and she approached him with her parchment.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for the Steward of Castle Marvolo. I believe I’m supposed to report to him for lodging and accommodations.”

“Her,” the wizard corrected, taking the proffered parchment and giving it a cursory glance before handing it back. “I’ll have you taken to her directly. Name and place of birth?”

He waved his wand at a list on the wall where a quill hovered ready to take down Hermione’s information.  

As she recited it for him, the man looked her over, a curious expression on his face. “We haven’t had many Suitors lately. The first few months, the castle was chock full of women, and a whole wing of men as well, all of them trying to solve His Majesty’s riddle. But he was too clever for them, he was. Hardly anyone in the castle at the moment, you know. Might be there’s no one in the whole world as smart as King Riddle!”

The wizard, a friendly looking bloke with a friendly looking paunch, seemed proud of the fact that his king had proven too clever to be defeated by the masses.

Hermione took a moment to reflect on the man’s attitude, as well as on the words he’d just said. Apparently, there wasn’t much competition left, and no one had yet been successful.

“Has anyone come close to solving it?” she asked.

He shook his head, his furry, brimmed hat falling down further into his eyes as he did so. “No one knows. All the Suitors agree to an Obliviation spell if they fail. All they know is that they didn’t succeed.”

“Oh, but how would they know if they succeeded, if they are Obliviated?” Hermione cried.

The man rolled his eyes with impatience, the quill behind him also tapping the long list of names impatiently, as if in response. “Well, if they succeeded, His Majesty wouldn’t have to Obliviate them, now would he?”

Curious, he does the Obliviation spells himself, Hermione thought. But it made sense, after all, as he couldn’t risk anyone else knowing about the riddle, so that it was fair for every. . . ‘Suitor,’ was it?

She supposed that was accurate also, as they were vying for his hand in marriage. The thought almost made her snort in laughter as she pictured herself dressed as a gallant come to call with nosegays and large bouquets of flowers.

She suppressed the thought quickly, a new one coming to mind. “Ser. . .” she looked around, noticing the name on his deskplate, “Slughorn.”

The man preened, obviously pleased to be called Ser, though if the man had ever been knighted, it was easily decades and many stone ago.

“Ser Slughorn,” she began again, her voice soft as if she were trying to broach a delicate topic. “If you please, do you suppose His Majesty actually _wants_ to be married?”

If King Riddle was simply going through the motions and Obliviating everyone who tried to solve his riddle, whether they succeeded or not, then there was no sense in her continuing on. She had no wish to submit herself to possible Obliviation if there was no hope of even winning the prize.

But Slughorn scoffed indignantly. “Of course he does! My dear girl, he wouldn’t have put such a decree out to the entire Wizarding world if he didn’t! He wouldn’t have put up hundreds of guests in his magnificent castle for months at a time if he didn’t think there was the chance his bride would be among them! Not want to get married, indeed.”

He sniffed at her, and she quickly murmured some apologies.

“No, no,” he continued, “our King wants to be married, but only the best will do. The most intelligent, the most magical, the most beautiful, the very kindest and most cunning of all witches—that’s the only type of woman suitable to be Queen of Ophidia.”

Hermione politely declined to mention that the message said nothing about beauty, kindness, or cunning, or any other traits beyond magical and intellectual ability. She couldn’t very well imagine how beauty could possibly help one to solve a riddle. If the answer involved using a Hair-Smoothing Charm, then she was doomed for sure. She wasn’t certain she wanted to win if that was what he was looking for.

“You are very right, Ser Slughorn,” she tactfully agreed with him. “This kingdom is very beautiful and deserves the very best leadership from its King and Queen, and it wouldn’t do at all to settle for less.”

“Ah!” His eyes lit up at her praise of his patria. “You are a smart one, after all!” He laughed a jolly laugh from his belly, all trace of his ire gone. “Perhaps you will be the one, my girl, perhaps you will!”

“You are too kind, Ser, it would certainly be my biggest honor to serve your wonderful country and to make it mine as well, should I be so fortunate as to win the prize.”

He shook his finger at her. “No, no, fortune has nothing to do with it. May you be quick of wit and quick of wand! And mayhap we will see each other again!”

She smiled and thanked him while he turned and called for a house-elf.

The little thing arrived with a pop, his tiny uniform embroidered with the seal of the House of Marvolo and the serpent that adorned the nation’s flag. “If Missy will please follow Agon? I will be taking you to Steward Aidos.”

“Thank you, Agon,” Hermione said politely, thinking this elf was the most well-spoken elf she’d ever met. She wondered what the literacy rate among the house-elves was.

“Is this all Missy has?” The elf eyed her small beaded bag with disdain, clearly having expected to have to help her with several pieces of luggage.

When she confirmed that she indeed had everything she needed, he sniffed with just a hint of pretension, and then he took her hand and Apparated them both away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R: CRW (CONSTRUCTIVE REVIEWS WELCOME) means that I am open to all reviews as long as they are not abusive. That would include positive feedback, negative opinions and constructive criticism.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Hermione came down the sweeping staircase into the Great Hall for suppertime. She’d put on her second-best set of dress robes, uncertain of how formal suppers were at the castle.

Agon had taken her to see Steward Aidos, and Hermione had been extremely surprised to discover that the Steward of Castle Marvolo was also a house-elf. Hermione had never been so intimidated by anyone as she was that serious-looking little elf sitting behind her big desk in a large west-facing room.

The afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows and onto the long skirt of Steward Aidos’ uniform. The house-elf’s legs couldn’t possibly have extended past the edge of the chair, but the dark green skirt draped all the way to the ground. Hermione wondered how she managed to move around in that uniform, or if perhaps she did all her stewarding from the desk.  
  
Aidos had carefully looked her over from head to toe, as if assessing her worth as a possible future queen, and Hermione had experienced a fleeting moment of doubt that she could match up to the witches who had come before her.

Gravely, Steward Aidos had welcomed her to Castle Marvolo and the Competition for the Hand of the King. In her little hand she held a quill, and placing it on the long scroll that was unrolled in front of her, she informed Hermione that once her name was placed on the list, she could not turn back.

She would have to wait her turn for her audience with the King, and a chance at solving the riddle, and at this time there were still three more ahead of her. Was she certain she wished to proceed?

Hermione had formally given her assent and Steward Aidos had engraved her name on the list, where it glowed silver for a moment, a legally binding contract.

A small map of the castle, with the public zones clearly marked, and instructions to stay primarily in the Suitors’ Wing, was put into Hermione’s hands.

Pheme, a chatty little house-elf in a flouncy dress, had been assigned to show her to her rooms. Hermione was pleased to learn that the library and the art gallery, as well as all of the gardens, were open to the public, and so also available to all of the guests at the castle.

She had hoped to be able to view them immediately, or at least acquaint herself with their locations, but Pheme had loudly protested that as she’d arrived just in time for supper, she would certainly be expected to dress and come down to join the rest of the castle!

Deciding the house-elf was no doubt correct about the proper protocol, she had reluctantly pushed her plans to explore off until much later that evening, or possibly even until the next day.

As Hermione entered the Great Hall, the long walk down the staircase allowed her to take in the entirety of the extremely large room. Several hundred people could have fit inside, comfortably seated at tables, but only a few dozen tables were set out for the castle’s current guests.

Directly across from the stairs was a raised dais with an ornately decorated table. Below the dais the rest of the tables were leisurely spread out through the front half of the room, long rectangles with evenly spaced chairs at them. Many people were already seated and chatting, and she could hear the murmur of their voices just above the supper music.

She took a moment to get her bearings. In one corner was a relatively empty table and Hermione headed towards it.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked politely of the single occupant.

From behind, she hadn’t recognized the head of curly blonde hair. But as the woman turned to address her, Hermione was surprised to realize she did know at least one other person in Ophidia.

“Luna Lovegood?”

“Why, Hermione Granger! How lovely to see you here!” In response to the initial question, Luna then added, “And no one is sitting here, so you are welcome to sit wherever you like. I hope you do!”

Feeling rather cheery at seeing a familiar face, Hermione settled herself in the chair next to Luna.

Though a year apart in school, the two girls had been sometimes friends and occasional study buddies. Luna was particularly fond of independently researching obscure topics, and the two girls had spent much time in the library at Hogwarts discussing various aspects of magic.

“I’ve just arrived this afternoon,” Hermione informed her. “If I had known you were coming to compete to solve the magical riddle, we could have made travel plans together.”

“And researched together!” they both said at the same time, laughing.

“I’ve been here for several weeks, actually,” Luna said. “I arrived at the tail end of a surge of Suitors, and have had to wait quite a while for my turn.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, disappointed at the idea of a long wait. Steward Aidos had said there were only a few ahead of her; Luna must obviously be one of them. She wondered aloud how long it took to have each Suitor tested.

“Each Suitor gets a single night to solve the riddle. The test begins when the sun goes down, and it is over when the sun comes up. You’ll be informed that morning when your turn comes.” With her hand, Luna indicated the other tables, most of which were not very full. “There were two score ahead of me when I arrived, but so far they have all been sent home.”

So at least 40 days Luna had been in Ophidia, staying at the castle. Hermione contemplated this as the food began to be served. House-elves, all in prim uniforms, materialized around them with huge platefuls of food.

She’d expected some kind of fanfare to announce the beginning of supper, and she realized with shock that the King had already entered the room and been seated at the ornate table. Beside him were several of Ophidia’s nobles—the powerful and elite.

As Luna served herself heaping portions of roasted vegetables, Hermione took a few moments to examine the King, seeing him in person for the first time.

The pictures had not done him justice.

Despite the sensational announcement of a bachelor king seeking a bride, there were somehow very few photographs of him. All the ones Hermione had seen had shown much the same things, a relatively young king with good looks and an unsmiling face.

His jaw was square, strong. His cheekbones were sharp, giving his face a slim and chiseled look. However, the feature that drew the attention the most were his eyes. As he stared out from the photograph, they were so intense and so dark they seemed almost black. It was only the even darker blackness of his short-cropped hair that emphasized the difference. She imagined she saw a glow of intelligence, possibly even the slightest hint of humor, in that piercing gaze. Or at least, that’s what she told herself when she found herself staring at the pictures whenever they were printed in the papers.

The pictures themselves had very little movement, and seemed to hold still with an unnatural calmness. She hadn’t noticed it at first, being used to Muggle photographs, which didn’t move at all, but Ron had pointed out how strange it was. When he shook the picture trying to get it to move, the figure gave him only a bit of an icy glare for his trouble.

“Good luck marrying that!” Ron had said.

But looking at King Riddle now, Hermione believed that the pictures had been very carefully staged and crafted to reveal as little about the man as possible.

In person, he was even more attractive. The gossip papers placed his age at the beginning of his thirties, which made him several years older than Hermione, but still very young to be shouldering the responsibilities of an entire country, even a small one like Ophidia.  

The tilt of his head, the angle he held his fork, his posture, his gaze—everything spoke of quiet power. He may have looked young, but he was every inch a powerful man—a man who knew his worth, a man who would not hesitate to make the very hard decisions. He wore the leathers of a warrior king rather than the soft, luxurious fabrics of the nobles around him, indicating he was a man who was deeply involved with the workings of his country.

She could picture him riding a horse, roaming the countryside dispensing justice, like kings of old.

Hermione could see how such a man would have accomplished so much in such a short time. She found him strangely compelling.

It didn’t hurt at all that he was also tall, lean, and muscular. And, according to reports, incredibly strong in magical power and ability.

As she contemplated his allure, he turned abruptly and caught her staring. She felt a zip almost like electricity shoot down her spine as their gazes touched.

Trying to fight a blush, she quickly looked down at her plate, which she’d somehow managed to fill with food that she didn’t remember choosing. She was glad that for the moment he likely had no idea who she was.

She heard a giggle from the other side of the table. Looking up, she realized that she and Luna had been joined by another woman, who had apparently witnessed and been amused by the almost-interchange she’d just had with the King.

Her expensive dress robes and carefully coiffed hair made it clear she was a very wealthy aristocrat.

“Don’t worry,” the woman said. “We all react like that at first. He’s very… fascinating.”

At hearing the same word that Hermione had often used to describe him herself, she blushed again. The tone of voice had suggested much more of a _physical_ fascination than Hermione would usually care to admit to.

“Hermione,” Luna addressed her, “this is Astoria Greengrasidi, another of King Riddle’s Suitors.”

At this description, the witch made a moue of disagreement. She sniffed. “Not for much longer, thankfully.”

A strange thing to say, Hermione thought. Was it because she expected to win? Or was she simply tired of the long wait, having been at the castle for likely as long as Luna had?

Before she could frame her words into a question polite enough to ask a stranger, Luna volunteered, “Miss Greengrasidi is here at the behest of her parents, but has no intention to win the hand of the King.”

Anticipating Hermione’s look of surprise, Miss Greengrasidi explained, “Mama and Baba said they would disown me if I did not at least try. All the families of Ophidia honor the King by putting forth a daughter, if they have one, to attempt the riddle.”

“Several put forth sons of a certain inclination as well,” Luna chimed in.

Miss Greengrasidi grimaced. “Would that my parents had a son to offer. Though I’m not sure it would have been enough to save me. My older sister, Daphne, has already tried and failed, and I thought my family would consider our honor preserved, but as one of the very few families with two daughters, they were determined to see my name on the list.”

“So you have no desire at all to marry the King?” Hermione asked, intrigued.

“Well, I can’t say as I’d mind marrying the King.” She glanced quickly back at the wizard on the dais wearing the crown. “We’ve all had that fantasy at one time or another. Or, at least, of a wedding and a wedding night.” Her eyes, as they reconnected with Hermione’s, twinkled with amusement and suggestiveness.

Hermione tried not to respond to her words, but it took effort not to let her gaze stray back to the King.  “Is it being a queen, then, that you don’t want?”

“Precisely.” Miss Greengrasidi shuddered in mock horror. “It’s all well and good when you’re 14 and picturing His Majesty being enraptured by your perfect curtsy, and sweeping you away to lie about on silks and satins all day. But it’s another thing to actually be responsible for thousands of Ophidian citizens and their welfare, enacting foreign policy, and wrangling argumentative nobles all day. Daphne may dream of just such a thing, but I’m afraid I do not have that kind of ambition.”

Hermione thought those things sounded rather appealing to her, actually. Maybe not the part where she might have to ‘wrangle nobles’ all day, but she’d like to think she could manage even that with diplomacy and fairness.

“When we’ve completed our trial here, Astoria will be traveling with me to Brittania,” Luna said. “And from there, we might go to Sweden. She’s promised to help me look for the Crumple-Horned Snorkack, you see.”

“Oh, yes,” Miss Greengrasidi confirmed, her eyes alight with the promise of adventure. “I’d love to see new countries and meet people from other cultures. Recently, I’ve become quite obsessed with the idea of traveling, and Miss Lovegood’s stories of the fantastical creatures she’s going to be looking for sounds like the makings of a wonderful adventure.”

Hermione smiled politely, more than half convinced that the creatures Luna was frequently speaking of were no longer in existence, if they ever were. But if anyone could find them, surely Luna could, so she saw no reason to discourage their excitement.

“But Luna,” Hermione said, turning to her old friend, “does that mean that you have no intention of winning, either?”

For a moment, she thought she saw the slightest hint of a frown come to Luna’s face, but it was gone quickly.

“King Riddle is not for me,” Luna said simply, an answer that was not quite an answer.

“So what will you do when they call you for your turn to solve the riddle?” Hermione asked them, genuinely curious. “Will you simply refuse to try? Or go through the motions and fake it?”

Miss Greengrasidi looked aghast at such a thing. “I would never insult His Majesty with less than an honest effort!” she hissed, glancing around to see if anyone had heard what Hermione had said. As they were alone at their table, no one else was within hearing distance.

When she was certain no one had noticed, she leaned forward, and added in a low voice, “It is rumored that His Majesty is the strongest Legilimens to ever be born. He can touch your mind with just a glance. He can walk through your memories like he’s strolling through a park, and you’d never even notice him. When he was very young, they say he wasn’t able to control it, and physical contact made with others caused him discomfort. Her Majesty the Royal Mother requested all the nobles wear gloves.”

Hermione noticed the gloves that sat on the table beside Miss Greengrasidi’s plate, where she must have placed them when she’d taken them off to eat. She hadn’t thought physical contact was a facet of the Legilimens spell.

How curious, the articles she’d read had said nothing about King Riddle being an accomplished Legilimens, which was an extremely difficult skill to learn. They only remarked on his extreme proficiency with magic of all kinds. She wondered what other areas of magic he had mastered.

“Even if it wasn’t for that,” Miss Greengrasidi was saying, “I would not dream of dishonoring my family with a fake attempt.” She ran her fingers lightly over her forearm, covered by her dress robes. The unconscious gesture was automatic, clearly an old habit.

“I’m sure you will fail quite decisively, Astoria,” Luna said to her, in a tone meant to be reassuring, while she buttered a roll of bread.

“I’m not worried. Daphne is much smarter than I am, and she wanted it more, so if she couldn’t solve the riddle then there’s little chance I will be able to.” So saying, she turned to Hermione. “I understand, Miss Granger, that you are one of the smartest witches to come out of Hogwarts, though, so mayhap you will be the one.”

It was hard to respond to such a thing without sounding immodest. Hermione knew she was one of the strongest and smartest witches in recent years, but it was never to her benefit to say so. Saying aloud to anyone else that she thought she could become a queen sounded much too grandiose. “I will certainly be doing my best, and am very much looking forward to the challenge,” she said, instead.

Then, she observed, “It would seem there is very little competition at the moment, if two of the three Suitors ahead of me are less than enthusiastic about winning.”

She caught that subtle look from Luna again, and determined she would ask her about it at the earliest opportunity.

Miss Greengrasidi just laughed and said, “Well, the other Suitor more than makes up for our own lack of enthusiasm. I take it you haven’t met Lady Alecto Carrow yet?”

“No, I haven’t. As I’ve only just arrived this afternoon, I haven’t had much chance to get acquainted with the area, or any of the people.”

At this news, Miss Greengrasidi looked quite pleased. “How exciting if you do end up winning! And not just because it would mean that despite all her boasting, Lady Carrow would have failed just like all the others. But if it turns out that I am one of the first Ophidians to have spoken with our new Queen, the distinction for our family would go far to soothing Baba’s disappointment at neither Daphne nor I solving the riddle.”

Hermione didn’t quite know what to say to that.

As if conscious of the pressure she’d just put on Hermione, Miss Greengrasidi giggled and added, “Plus, I quite like you Miss Granger. Even if you don’t win, I shall be glad to say I know you.”

Hermione smiled back at her, surprised to find that she actually liked the talkative Miss Greengrasidi quite a bit.

The three women passed the rest of the meal in pleasant conversation before making plans to meet in the morning. Astoria promised to give her a tour of the grounds.

When they left the Great Hall, heading towards the wing for the Suitors, Hermione happened to glance back.

The King sat at his place at the table, as regal as if the ornate chair he was in was a throne. His expression was difficult to read, but he was staring directly at her.

She held his gaze for only a moment before her companions could get too far ahead of her, and then she looked away quickly, wondering if it was really possible for him to read minds with just a glance. A shiver went through her at the thought. Even if he could do it from that distance, she was sure he wasn’t in the habit of invading the privacy of every person he looked at. Still, the feel of his eyes upon her stayed with her throughout the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)


	3. Chapter 3

 

In the morning, after Pheme had brought her breakfast, Hermione prepared to meet with her companions from the night before. She packed her map of the castle grounds along with some parchment and quills.

She caught sight of the other two already standing outside of the Great Hall.

Luna’s eyes were bright with excitement. “Astoria’s night is tonight! Her robes were delivered this morning!” Each Suitor was delivered white robes the morning of their trial, and it was the only clothing they were allowed to wear. To ensure fairness for each competitor, besides the robes that were issued to them, they could bring into the room only what knowledge was contained in their head, and their own wand.

The Ophidian witch was less enthusiastic than her friend, but she did admit to having felt a certain thrill at knowing that her wait was over, and that she would be spending all night with the King.

“Should you be studying, then?” Hermione asked. “Or perhaps spend the day sleeping in case you need to stay up all night?”

Astoria made a dismissive gesture with her gloved hands. She was once again garbed in luxurious fabrics that draped dramatically against her body. “I don’t think I’ll need all night to establish having made a sincere effort. Many of the Suitors were put out early, so it’s safe to assume that there’s a point at which success is no longer viable.”

“I wish we had an inkling of what was going on in there,” Hermione mused aloud, knowing of course, that it was impossible, as such information would give someone an unfair advantage.

“Well,” Astoria said, “since you are actually trying to win, I suppose we could give you the observations we’ve made since we’ve been here. Perhaps there’s something there that you could use.”

Luna frowned at the two of them. “I’d much rather show Hermione the paintings of the Dabberblimps in the gallery. There’s plenty of time to discuss Riddle’s riddle, especially after you finish your trial tonight.”

“I won’t remember anything from the trial, though,” Astoria pointed out, unnecessarily. “Still, I’m sure I’ll be happy to help.”

The three meandered down the corridors, Astoria in the lead, starting in the Portrait Gallery, which was the closest to them. Being in the company of an Ophidian meant that Hermione learned much more about the history of the country, and the royal family, than she had been able to gather from the books published on the subject.

The Greengrasidis were a very old family with a long history of loyalty to Ophidia. Several of Astoria’s ancestors greeted them with a nod of their heads as they passed by.

Though the Marvolo family was descended from Ptolemy, the magical portraits did not go far enough back to the time of Alexander the Great. There was, however, a very large marble statue of Ptolemy surrounded by pedestals with busts of his four wives.

The smoothness of the marble had the blush of skin, and Hermione could almost believe that the statue breathed. She reached out a hand to see if it was warm to the touch, but was quickly stopped by Astoria, who quietly shook her head.

Instead, she leaned forward to examine it closely. It was said that when Ptolemy founded his dynasty on the ashes of Alexander’s empire that he did it on the principles of wizard supremacy. It would be a nation that would never hide its nature out of fear of persecution. Though the country of Ophidia was much smaller than the extensive lands that Ptolemy once ruled over, it still proudly held to those same basic beliefs, though thankfully without the ideology of enslaving Muggles for being a lesser race.

Though Hermione was fiercely defensive of her Muggle-born heritage, she felt an echo of the grandness of what Ptolemy had wanted to accomplish. Upon learning she was a witch, she had chafed under the restraints of the Statute of Secrecy that prevented her from sharing her true nature with her Muggle friends. She had to quickly become accustomed to living a double life if she didn’t want to simply leave her old one behind.

It was refreshing to think that wherever she went, every store she went into, every home she passed on every street, she’d be known and respected for being a witch.

In a very secret corner of her heart, she thought that if she did win, and became Queen, that she would want to be part of the solution to mending the breach between Muggles and wizards. There must be a way that they can all coexist peacefully and without secrets. Her intuition told her that Ophidia was the key.

With those thoughts running through her head, she turned her attention to Ptolemy’s wives. They were all lovely, but their faces seemed melancholy, compared to the stern pride carved into their husband’s face.

Each of the women had a piece of broken jewelry draped around their necks. She’d thought it was part of the sculpture, but upon closer inspection, it appeared that each one had a torque, in the fashion of the Egyptians, fastened to it. The large moonstones that decorated each one were cracked and jagged.

She wondered aloud why they didn’t fix the stones or reset them with new ones for the display.

Astoria regarded the sculptures thoughtfully. “They are said to have been magical talismans that each wife wore until she died. They granted an important magical property, though it is never specified just what they did. They were saved and put on display as each wife preceded him in death. And when he finally crossed the veil, it is said the stones were broken.”

There was something eerie about those broken stones that made Hermione uncomfortable. She imagined there was a buzzing in the air, along her skin, that made the hair stand up on end. She looked around to see if the others felt the same. While Astoria didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, Luna was wearing that frown again.

With her elbow, she nudged Luna, and they continued walking through the gallery.

Astoria kept up a chatter about some of the notable wizards and witches that they passed. Many of the portraits, used to a parade of magical visitors, sniffed at them in disdain. They had no use for foreign witches who would be gone from the country as soon as the King saw fit to turn them out.

Most contented themselves with ignoring the women as they passed. Some glared at them as if they were intruders. Some gaily called out corrections to Astoria’s recounting of history. Once out of earshot, Astoria would lean over and say, “That’s what they claim, anyway, but the records say otherwise.”

They rounded a corner and came to an alcove that housed just two portraits in simple silver frames.  

They were angled to face each other, and Hermione stepped up to read aloud the names engraved on the plaques. Tom Riddle and Merope Gaunt Marvolo. The King’s parents.

Queen Merope’s gaze flitted across the three girls before landing on Hermione. Her eyes brightened, an intelligence gleaming in them that many of the other portraits did not have. She took her in and a smile formed on her face. She had obviously been an extremely powerful witch for her portrait to have such awareness. “I do not believe we have had the pleasure of meeting, little one. I am Queen Merope. And you are?”

“Hermione. Hermione Granger, Your Majesty.”

Awkwardly, Hermione dropped into a semblance of a curtsy. The regal bearing of the woman wearing the heavy silver crown made Hermione feel clumsy and boorish. Merlin, she should have practiced. She’d told herself it was only her magical ability that mattered, but she found herself suddenly wishing she’d spared at least a few moments to learn a proper curtsy. Or at least to learn if Ophidians even curtsied.

From her peripheral vision, she saw Luna make what appeared to be a bow in the style of the Japanese. When Astoria sank gracefully into a perfect curtsy, murmuring “Your Majesty” in a quiet voice, Hermione ruefully noted that action answered her question.

Astoria’s wide eyes, and Luna’s concerned expression told Hermione that it was not often the Queen, or rather, the portrait of the Queen, deigned to talk to passersby.

Queen Merope tilted her head to get a better look at Hermione as she stood. Under the crown, the Queen’s long dark hair stood out starkly against the pale skin of her face, and it barely moved with her actions. “Your accent is British, but your name is Greek.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, my mother was fond of Greek mythology. And Shakespeare’s plays.”

The Queen raised one eyebrow. “Wizards prefer calling it Greek magical history,” she corrected, conveniently ignoring the statement about Shakespeare. “Your mother is Muggle-born, then?”

Hermione was taken aback by her statement. In Brittania, Wizarding society still called it Greek mythology, despite the knowledge that much of what the Muggles considered mythology had roots in truth. Here in Ophidia, with its strong Greek roots, they obviously felt very different about it. Still, the Queen’s assumption was not far off.

“No, Your Majesty, she is a Muggle.”

Beside the Queen, Tom Riddle’s portrait stirred, his handsome face turning to look at them.

“You are half-blood,” the Queen stated, no question in her voice.

Hermione was forced to contradict her again. “No, Your Majesty.”

From the portraits there was silence, although Tom Riddle looked quite pleased. He seemed on the verge of saying something when the Queen spoke again.

“Impossible,” she said, her voice very low. “I can sense the strength of your magic from here.”

If the broken torques on the necks of the statues had made Hermione’s hair stand on end, the Queen’s statement made all of her blood turn to ice.

There was something in the intensity of her disbelieving stare that unnerved Hermione more than the usual prejudice she often encountered among Purebloods. Those dark eyes glittered with equal amounts of disgust and glee. She didn’t move, the curtain of her hair still hanging perfectly straight on either side of her head, but she reminded Hermione of a predator lying in wait for its prey.

Before Hermione could speak, to once again contradict the Queen, Tom Riddle cleared his throat to get her attention.

“Good lady, I welcome you to the castle!” The Prince Consort’s smile was wide, his expression open and friendly. “Another Muggle-born has found their way into Ophidia! What a refreshing change of pace.”

He puffed his chest out with pride while the Queen continued to watch Hermione with unmoving eyes. “I am also a Muggle-born. I came to Ophidia as a very young man, fleeing persecution from my hometown near the border of Brittania and Francia. I had thought to stay only a short time, but I met my Merope, and she convinced me to remain here.”

At this, the Queen’s eyes cleared from her contemplation, and she smiled at the portrait beside her. “Ophidia is your home now, my love.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” the wizard reassured his Queen. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving. But it is a breath of fresh air to have another Muggle-born here in the castle! Tell me, Miss Granger…”

For the next 30 minutes, Tom Riddle plied Hermione with question after question of life in Brittania. Hermione answered them all to the best of her ability, conscious the entire time of the Queen’s portrait, which still continued to quietly assess her.

Eventually, a gentle cough sounded beside her. Astoria interrupted apologetically, “Excuse us—Your Majesty, My Lord—but I’m afraid we must be going.”

Tom’s portrait looked disappointed. “Oh dear, so soon?” ­

Merope’s portrait echoed his sentiments, but they lacked the sincerity of her husband’s.

Astoria came between Hermione and Luna, and linking her arms with each woman, she insistently tugged them both down into a short curtsy. “I’m so sorry to cut our visit short, Your Majesty, but I have many preparations to make, as tonight I am called before the King.”

“Ah, you compete for the hand of my son,” Tom exclaimed, happily, his gaze taking in all three of the women. “I wish you well! I do hope we will see each other again.” It was clear he meant Hermione.

The Queen gave the very slightest incline of her head to acknowledge their departure. “Daughter of Ophidia,” she addressed Astoria. “I wish you success on your suit. May you be quick of wit and quick of wand. I am certain we will be seeing each other again.”

It was clear to them all that her words were also meant for Hermione.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)


	4. Chapter 4

 

After dinner, and shortly before the sun went down, Astoria was escorted from her rooms by a house-elf. She had only her wand and the white robes that had been given to her, as instructed.

Hermione and Luna agreed that they wouldn’t wait up for her, but once she left, they made their way over to the library.

Truly, this was the one place Hermione had been wanting to see all day, but Astoria had insisted they first look at the art galleries and some of the other historical artifacts. Luna was content to go wherever the other two went, seeing as how she’d been in Ophidia for several weeks and had already explored quite enough to discover there were definitely no Moon Frogs anywhere in, or near, the castle.

Hermione, still a little unnerved by her conversation with the portraits of the Queen and her Prince Consort, had allowed herself to be steered in whichever direction Astoria saw fit.

Perhaps it was the Queen’s parting words, or maybe it was Tom Riddle’s unusual interest in the Muggle-born witch, but Astoria seemed convinced that Hermione needed a full history lesson as soon as possible. She actually seemed very excited to think that Hermione might very well be the next Ophidian Queen, far more excited than their single day’s acquaintance should have warranted.

Luna, however, was noticeably silent on that topic, changing the conversation to something more innocuous at every opportunity. Most people thought Luna was speaking nonsense, or that she was easily distracted, since she made observations and topic changes that seemed to come out of the blue. But in the time they’d spent together at Hogwarts, Hermione had gotten to know her well enough to note when Luna deliberately misdirected the attention of others.

Several times when Astoria started talking about the King, Luna employed this tactic successfully. Hermione was actually very curious about the King and about whatever gossip or insight Astoria had, but she was more curious about why Luna refused to talk about him. Since she didn’t wish to offend Astoria, though, Hermione wanted to wait until she could speak to Luna alone.

Once they reached the library, however, all thoughts of Luna, Astoria, Ophidia, the King, and even the mysterious riddle, completely flew from her mind.

Hermione had known it would be large, but the space housing the library was enormous, with high ceilings, elegant arches, and large supporting columns. She didn’t see how the entire room could have fit into this section of the castle, but she had no doubt magic was involved to enlarge the area.

Unlike many libraries that avoided bright light and any exposure to outside elements in order to preserve the texts, this one was lined with great windows that let in enormous amounts of sunshine. One of them was open to allow owls to fly in and out of the owl post station. No doubt there were security spells on the entire library to prevent theft or damage from sunlight, air, and water. And hopefully, fire.

Its parent library, the library in Alexandria, had burned down many, many centuries ago. But the library at Castle Marvolo was purported to be the largest magical library in existence, as well as the oldest. Many of the scrolls from Alexandria were rumored to have been lost, but Ophidia had almost all of the ones that survived. The most ancient scrolls had been transcribed into more modern text, and the originals were carefully kept under closely monitored stasis spells. Even the transcriptions were difficult to gain access to.

Scholars from all over the world came to Ophidia to do research, especially to find the answers to obscure problems. Legend had it that when Merlin struggled with the creation of a particularly difficult spell that would aid in the protection of Muggles, he traveled to Ophidia and demanded of the then-Pharoah to see some of the Ptolemaic scrolls that discussed Ptolemy’s dealings with Muggles. And the Pharoah, angry at Merlin’s presumptuousness, as well as his unpalatable view on living in harmony with Muggles, had turned him down.

It had been one of Hermione’s fondest wishes to travel to the library at Castle Marvolo, but Harry and Ron had been unenthusiastic, even when she had agreed to include an afternoon at the Museum of Quidditch in Lagus. She’d still planned to go on her own, but hadn’t yet made any definite arrangements when the search for a bride for King Riddle had been announced.

And now she was here, and there was a prickling all over her skin, as if a wave of magic had washed over her. It was like. . . almost like. . . coming home.

It reminded her of that first time she’d entered Diagon Alley. There was so much to look at, so many different people, so many new things, and yet she’d had this overwhelming feeling like it was exactly where she was meant to be.

Hermione breathed in deeply, the scent of old parchment, the crackle of magical energy. It shot through her like a burst of adrenaline.

She looked over at Luna and grinned, excitement flooding her veins. When she started taking a step over to the nearest shelves of books, Luna caught her by the arm.

“We need to get you checked in, first.”

A very large desk with several officious looking wizards and witches bustling behind it took up a corner closest to the door. The sign above it indicated these were the librarians.

Luna led her over to the line for new patrons, which was fortunately very short.

“Name and country of origin, please,” intoned the stuffy-looking wizard in the dark robes.

“Hermione Granger, Brittania,” she answered, quickly.

He sniffed the tiniest bit, as if her answer displeased him. “And your purpose for using the library?”

“Pleasure,” Hermione said. When the wizard raised his eyebrow slightly, she quickly added, “And research.”

“And what are you researching?”

She thought he was being a bit nosy. She wasn’t certain if it was common for the librarians to know exactly what everyone was looking up in the library. “I haven’t decided yet,” she said, truthfully. She was always researching something.

The librarian did not appreciate that answer. He pursed his mouth, as if thinking. Then he asked, “What is your purpose in Ophidia?”

Yes, very nosy, she decided. “I’m here to solve a riddle,” she said, pointedly.

His eyebrows rose straight up into his hairline at that. Certainly, he must have seen a variety of Suitors who had come to stay at the castle over the last several months, so it couldn’t have been surprise at her purpose. Perhaps it was her confidence, or her boldness that unnerved him; the presumptuousness to believe she would be the one to solve the riddle and one day become Queen.

She tried to stifle a smile at his expression, though Luna made no such attempt.

At her soft laugh, he frowned. He quickly gathered himself back together, and with a scowl, he held his hand out for Hermione’s wand.

Reluctantly, she handed it over, and he quickly had it banded with a silvery-green stripe at the bottom.

He returned it, and gave her a map of the library. Ophidians seemed to like giving people maps. “Your wand allows you access to any of the areas marked with this same color. They are areas of general study and information, and constitute the majority of the library. The spell on your wand allows you to take down and return any of the books on those shelves. It will also work to keep a record of books and scrolls you’ve accessed, and tapping parchment with your wand while speaking  _'Scribendi'_ will write out a history of everything you’ve looked at during your library session. Be certain to do it before you leave the library, as your browsing history will be erased when you leave. The next time you return, the band will automatically appear on your wand, and you do not need to check in with the librarians unless your purpose has changed and you require access to more restricted locations.”

Despite his bad attitude, Hermione thanked him enthusiastically. She felt like a child receiving her first library card.

Now that she knew what she was looking for, she saw that Luna’s wand had the same color band on it, and that all the shelves closest to her were also marked with the silvery green. She wondered where she should start. She thought of all the tales that Astoria had told them that morning.

Before the librarian could move on to the next patron, she asked him, “Where is the section on Ophidian history?”

The frown never left his face as he said in short, clipped tones, “It’s on your map.”

“Oh, of course, pardon me.” She pulled the slip of paper out as she walked away from the desk and the bad-tempered man. It was a magical map, with the largest category names floating above their corresponding locations. If she drew her finger down onto that section, much smaller categories floated out to pinpoint things more easily.

The section on Ophidia was quite large, and not too far away, so Hermione pocketed the map, and headed in that direction.

“Was there something you wanted to look up?” Luna asked, as they walked between the stacks. She paused for a moment to glance at a volume of legends on rare magical creatures. She tapped her wand to the title, presumably recording it for her to find again later.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hermione answered. “I just wanted to look and browse some of the subjects. Everything is so very well kept! It’s a very beautiful library. I wish I could have seen the library at Alexandria, that must have been magnificent.”

Luna nodded at her words. “I understand King Riddle is very particular about things meeting the very highest standards.” She frowned. “And that he is very swift about enforcing needed corrections.”

Hermione heard that hint of disapproval again. She broached the topic that had been niggling at the back of her mind. “What is it about this country that makes you uncomfortable? Or is it the King?”

Luna was silent for a moment. “I find Muggles endlessly fascinating,” she finally said, the topic changing abruptly again. “I also find it interesting that Ophidians know so little about them.”

Hermione slowed down, turning to look at Luna, trying to understand her reasoning.

Luna, not seeming to pay any attention to the fact that Hermione had stopped walking, continued blithely, “Astoria is very excited to visit Muggle London on our trip back to Brittania. I’ve promised her we can go to see some of the famous museums and art galleries; she’s particularly interested in those. Everything she’s learned about Muggles she’s learned from books, or the experiences of others.”

Turning, Luna looked up at the signs above the stacks, as if reorienting herself. “Oh! The Muggle section isn’t far from here, let’s stop in and take a look. I’d seen a hilarious tale of an Ophidian who had visited an American pizza shop and thought Muggles didn’t know how to use eating utensils.”

She walked away, leaving a bemused Hermione to follow in her wake. Luna kept up a casual chatter about Muggles as she wove between some of the stacks.

For a moment, Hermione thought Luna didn’t actually know where she was going, as she seemed to backtrack several times, going up one row of shelves, only to come back the same direction from a few rows over.

“Oh, here we are!” she finally said, stopping in front of several shelves with books that had colorful spines. There were a few tables set in an open section between several angled bookcases. Luna grabbed a couple of books on Muggle homes and lifestyles and, without waiting for Hermione, headed over to the table right in the center of the other tables.

Curious, and sensing that there must be a reason for Luna’s odd behavior, Hermione followed. She noted a couple of books on explaining Muggle science that looked interesting, and so, copying Luna’s behavior, she snagged them and carefully brought them over to the table.

Luna appeared to be looking for something within the book she held in her hands. For several moments, Hermione just watched her.

What she really wanted to do was go and explore the rest of the library. She certainly didn’t need to do any research on Muggles. She thought about telling Luna she’d meet back up with her later.

As if she could sense Hermione’s thoughts, Luna looked up with her usual serene expression and said, “Hermione Granger. Aren’t you going to sit and look at your book?”

With a sigh, Hermione accepted that Luna wanted something specific from her, so she took the seat next to hers. Opening her book, she pretended to read. It was clear the author hadn’t done the slightest bit of research on Muggle science as they had several theories confused. No wonder people viewed Muggles as backwards when books like this portrayed them so inaccurately.

Luna’s wand sat on the table beside her. With her eyes still on her book, the blonde witch covered her wand with her hand and said, so quietly Hermione could barely hear her, “ _Muffliato_.”

Anyone nearby would hear a buzzing sound they couldn’t pinpoint, and it would ensure the two women would not be heard. The hairs on the back of Hermione’s neck prickled as she realized Luna had just walked her into one of the least populated areas of the library, surrounded them with empty tables and chairs, and then cast a spell to prevent eavesdropping.

“Luna, what’s going on?” Hermione asked without preamble, her casually acquired book forgotten. Better to be straight-forward than to wait until Luna revealed what she was thinking in her own circuitous way. She kept her voice low, even knowing the spell would hide their voices, but not wanting to take a chance.

“I don’t want any of the Ophidians to overhear us speaking,” Luna said, still looking down at her book as if she was intently absorbed in it. “They are…particularly proud of their country and might become defensive if they thought we were saying something negative.”

Hermione thought about her words for a moment, still feeling the prickle of fear. “ _Are_ we saying something negative, Luna?”

With a sigh, Luna looked up at her. “I don’t like it here.”

Hermione felt a measure of relief wash through her at something so simple. She’d been expecting high treason. “Oh, Luna, you’re probably just homesick. You’ve been away from Brittania for weeks, but I’m sure you’ll be able to go home soon and will feel much better.”

Slowly, Luna shook her head. “There is something out of balance here in this country. And it has to do with the King.”

At the mention of King Riddle, Hermione’s ears perked up. There was just something about him she found endlessly fascinating, and she wanted to know what her friend thought of him. “Have you seen something unusual?”

Tilting her head to one side, Luna tapped her fingers on the desktop, as if deliberating on how much she should say. “Have you noticed the Wrackspurts won’t go anywhere near him?”

“No, I can’t say that I have,” Hermione said, taken aback.

“Well, you’ve only been here a day and haven’t had much time to observe him. I haven’t conversed with the King, but I’ve seen him several times at supper and occasionally around the gardens or in the library.”

“He comes to the library?” Hermione squeaked out, suddenly panicked by the idea that he could appear around the corner at any moment.

“Of course, where else would the King go to do his own research but his library?”

“I wonder what he researches,” Hermione mused.

Luna dismissed her thoughts with a wave of her fingers. “Riddles, probably. And how to create a particularly difficult one. And what to do if no one solves it.”

Hermione laughed, before she realized that Luna wasn’t making a joke.

The other woman continued, as if Hermione hadn’t sidetracked the conversation. “There is something very dangerous about him. He stares, sometimes, as if he can read a person’s mind and doesn’t like what he finds there. He holds too still when I can feel there is always a storm raging inside of him. And everything here is too. . . clean. Too perfect. Too calm. It is not a natural state of things.”

Frowning, Hermione said, “There is nothing particularly wrong about any of those things, though.”

“No,” Luna admitted, “not wrong. Just. . . out of balance. This whole country feels just on the edge of balance. One step the wrong direction, and everything falls into an abyss.”

Hermione shook her head. “There’s nothing wrong with a country that has high standards for its citizens. The scope of what he has accomplished during his reign is nothing short of astonishing.” She felt a strange need to defend this king she hadn’t even met yet. She greatly admired his work and it left a strange feeling in her gut to hear Luna speak unfavorably of him. “It’s hard to see when you’re used to something different, but everyone is healthy and happy. Isn’t that the proof of a good ruler?”

“Perhaps,” Luna answered with a shrug. “I have nothing except the Wrackspurts that won’t go near him to fuel my suspicions; and my own intuition, which admittedly is only slightly more than 72% accurate.”

She cocked her head to one side, as if listening, and then asked in a very different tone of voice, “Can you feel the magic of the land, Hermione?”

Hermione pursed her mouth, trying to decide if Luna had changed the subject just because she didn’t want to talk about the King anymore, or if the topics were connected. You could never tell with Luna. “I haven’t had much time to do any elemental magic since I’ve arrived.”

That dreamy, far-off look was back in Luna’s eyes, the one most people associated with her. “The land pulses with magic, bright and serene. Perhaps it is a thousand years of wizards and witches connected to the earth and the air and the fire and the water, but the whole country feels alive. If I listen hard enough, I think I could hear Ophidia singing to me.”

There was something very unique about this witch, Hermione had always known it. She had sometimes envied that quality, as she sometimes did the things she couldn’t understand. She had occasionally underestimated her, as most of her former classmates often had. But in the years they had known each other, and even though Hermione generally scoffed at most Seers, she couldn’t help but acknowledge that Luna often Saw things about the present or the future, or even the past, that was unavailable to others.

“Ophidia is on a cusp,” Luna whispered. “Something new is about to happen, but there’s no saying whether it is for good or ill. Only that there is energy gathered. And at the heart of it is a king who can overwhelm with a glance, but is alarmingly obscured. I cannot sense him and his tie to the land.” She paused, and then added in a tone of finality, “And the Wrackspurts cannot find him.”

Hermione shivered a little at the dread in Luna’s voice. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe Luna’s vague observances. There were a hundred explanations for each of the concerns, not the least of which was the fact that Hermione wasn’t even certain that she believed Wrackspurts existed. But she didn’t know how to voice her doubts as Luna hadn’t made any accusations.

She was about to open her mouth to ask Luna another question when a woman came around the corner.  The hard, angular lines of her face showed no surprise at finding them there at the tables. From the slow way she sauntered up to them, it looked like she was deliberately seeking them out.

Luna’s hand went back to her wand, and though Hermione couldn’t hear her voice the spell, she was sure the buzzing of the Muffliato came to an end.

“Well, well,” the newcomer said. Her voice was as sharp as her eyes. Her expensive dress robes were thin, so as to be almost too revealing of the curvy body that was underneath. She also had satin gloves that climbed up to well past her elbows, proclaiming her one of Ophidia’s nobles.

“Lady Carrow,” Luna acknowledged, politely. “How lovely to see you here!” Her tone was innocent, something no one could find fault with, and yet Lady Carrow’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“I didn’t know you were interested in Muggle history as well,” Luna continued, with an air of surprise. “How wonderfully progressive of you!”

The compliment caused a sneer to appear immediately on the woman’s face, turning her handsome visage into one of ugly anger. But she quickly wiped it away, composing her expression back into the haughty one she’d arrived with. “As if I would waste my time with such a useless topic as _Muggles_.”

Luna’s face brightened, as if Lady Carrow had delivered them a compliment. “Then you’re here to welcome my friend Hermione Granger to Ophidia, and to wish her luck! Truly, the Ophidians have been very kind to us here, haven’t they, Hermione?” She turned to look expectantly at Hermione, who was hesitant to agree with her when it was obvious that Lady Carrow had intended nothing so kind as a benevolent greeting.

“Oh!” Luna said with a touch of dismay, before anyone else could say anything. “I forgot to introduce you! I’ll do that, first. Hermione Granger, this is Alecto Carrow, a Lady of Ophidia.” In a chatty tone, she added, “Her _brother_ is one of the elite nobles of Ophidia. Very influential and well-known.”

Lady Carrow’s eyes narrowed at this description. Luna had obviously hit a nerve, probably intentionally. “As the eldest by only 10 minutes, my brother, Lord Carrow, may own the family lands, but we are of equal ranking in society, _girl_.” The woman couldn’t have been more than 10 years older than the two Brittanians, but it was clear she considered herself far superior.

“Oh, are you really?” Luna asked, disingenuously. “How very fortunate for you!” As if the woman’s statements were of little consequence, Luna continued, “And may I introduce to you my good friend, Hermione Granger. She will soon be presenting herself to solve the King’s riddle!”

It was obvious that Lady Carrow expected the two younger witches to stand up to greet her properly, and that she was offended when they failed to do so.

Hermione followed Luna’s lead, and smiled in a friendly fashion. “How nice to meet you, Lady Carrow.”

Her greeting was rudely ignored.

“I had heard there was a Muggle-born here in the castle that had the audacity to think she could try for the hand of the King. I had even heard that she had had the effrontery to speak directly to the portrait of Queen Merope. From such reports, I had expected a particularly formidable witch, perhaps even one who could give me competition. But looking at you, I see I have little to concern myself with.” Her gaze took in Hermione’s plain robes and the books on Muggles scattered across the tables. “A shame Athanasius did not take my advice and limit the participants to only those with a proper _magical_ heritage. Then we would not have to suffer the presence of those who are not worthy of wielding a wand here in Ophidia.”

Hermione understood now why Astoria had spoken of the woman with such a negative tone. Also, why she didn’t fancy wrangling nobles on important political decisions. If they all showed this level of prejudice and lack of manners, it must be very trying indeed to achieve any progress.

With a falsely bright smile, Hermione asked, “Oh, are you close to the King? You seem to know him well.”

“Of course.” Lady Carrow tossed her head, although the limp hair that was gathered at the nape of her neck barely moved. “Athanasius and I are of an age, and I have spent my life as a part of this court. I am _intimately acquainted_ with the workings of the castle; it is much like a second home to me,” she said, pointedly.

That would explain the territorialism the woman was displaying. Her ‘intimate acquaintance’ was surely with the King himself and not simply the castle. She must have hoped the King would choose to marry her one day, and it was a thorn in her side that he was seeking a bride through this competition.

“Ah,” Hermione said, as if in understanding. “I can only imagine that the King must be all too aware, then, of what quality is available among the daughters of Ophidia. He surely felt it would be to his benefit to look farther than his own borders for a queen that could meet his high standards.” She saw the rage come into Lady Carrow’s eyes, and the way her hand twitched towards her wand, but she ignored it. “How exciting it will be for you when you do finally welcome your new queen!”

“It will certainly not be you!” she spat out. “You little Mudblood, you could never hope to be worthy of the King’s attention. I will solve the riddle. And if I do not, it will be because it is not solvable. When he is finally convinced that there is no one in this land or any other who can be his true equal, he will offer to me what should have always been mine. And you had better hope that you are long gone when that happens, because I will see your abhorrent presence removed from this court the moment the Silver Crown is on my head!” Her face had purpled in rage by the end of her diatribe.

At the woman’s incredibly rude words, Hermione felt the adrenaline rush through her fingertips as if she were about to plunge headlong into battle. With some effort, she held back the urge to fly to her feet and engage the enemy. This was simply posturing and empty threats; it had no sense and no purpose. Neither one of them could make the decision for the King, no matter what they might say otherwise. There was only one solution, and that was to solve the riddle, and any arguments they made in the meantime were so much empty words.

She forced herself to hold eye contact with the woman while she took two slow breaths.

Before she could respond, though, Luna said, “Oh, dear! Are you quite alright, Lady Carrow? You seem quite upset. Have you perhaps over-exerted yourself? Do you need us to call an elf to help you?”

Luna rose to her feet, as if she would round the table to approach the other woman.

Hermione placed a gentle hand on her wrist, “No, Luna, I’m sure Lady Carrow will be just fine. She is surely just anxious about her own upcoming trial before the King.” She quoted, “‘Expectation is the root of all heartache,’ and dear Lady Carrow must have quite the case of heartache with such very high expectations.”

Luna appeared to brighten. “That definitely sounds like Wrackspurts. What a coincidence, we were just talking about them earlier. My father has a remedy for removing those pesky Wrackspurts, and I’d be happy to try to help you clear your mind of them. I have some time now. Will you be sitting with us, Lady Carrow?” Luna made as if to clear the books beside her so that Lady Carrow could join them.

In the face of such an offer, Lady Carrow could do nothing but grit her teeth in distaste and frustration. “I will not.” As her last parting shot, she hissed at Hermione, “Remember what I’ve said, girl!”

Louder, she added, “And do try to enjoy your _very_ brief stay here in Ophidia,” before she strolled off down the aisle. Her step was only slightly quicker than it had been when she had arrived.

The two from Brittania waited until she was well around the corner before they spoke again. Luna’s hand once again covered her wand as she whispered the _Muffliato_ that gave them a minimal amount of protection from eavesdroppers.

“Well, that’s a first,” Hermione said. “Usually people only hate me for what I accomplish after I’ve already accomplished it, not before. And certainly not when the chance of me actually accomplishing it is so slim. Dozens and dozens of witches have gone before me, has she treated every single one so poorly? I’m surprised the King hasn’t chastised her for her behavior towards his possible future wives.”

Luna shook her head. “She’s unkind to start with, but worse since she feels threatened. She had been under the impression that if no one solves the riddle, that the King would most likely marry her. It’s why she never bothered to join the ranks of the Suitors in the first place. It was recently brought to her attention the error of her assumption, and she was forced to enter to compete for his hand the same as everyone else. Since then, she’s been a terror to everyone who she considers a threat.”

“I don’t understand,” Hermione said. “Her name must be ahead of mine, then, which means that she will get her chance at the riddle, and if I even have the option to try to solve it, it will be because she failed. And that couldn’t possibly be my fault.”

Luna looked very thoughtful for a moment. “Did you hear what she said about talking to the portraits? I don’t believe it’s common for them to talk to passersby, certainly not foreigners. Merope does sometimes, but Tom almost never does. She must have heard about your conversation, and she thinks it’s significant.”

A little thrill ran through Hermione. It had been exhilarating to speak with a queen, even if it was only a portrait of one. It was a pleasure to speak to the Prince Consort, as well. How strange to think that if she solved the riddle and married their son, that they would be her parents-in-law. Or portraits-in-law, she supposed. Knowing that the extremely rude Ophidian noble felt threatened by her conversation with royal portraits, gave her a grim sort of satisfaction, and she was not above denying it.

Still, she could recognize that there was danger for her here in the castle, and she would try to act accordingly.

“Do you suppose we are being watched?” she asked Luna, quietly.

Luna shrugged, but the look in her eyes told Hermione that it was more acknowledgement than dismissal. “It doesn’t change anything even if we are.”

“That’s true,” she admitted. “Is it terrible of me to say that I almost hope Astoria solves the riddle tonight, just so we can rub it in that awful woman’s face?”

Luna scrunched up her face in a frown. “That would definitely be a terrible thing to say. Poor Astoria would be so dreadfully unhappy. Besides, then she couldn’t come to Sweden with me, and Papa won’t let me search for the Blibbering Humdingers if I don’t bring along a partner.”

Hermione laughed at her friend’s woeful expression. “There’s nothing for it, I suppose, I shall just have to solve it myself then.”

Luna’s face was serious once again. “I am afraid you are probably right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)


	5. Chapter 5

Despite having spent an entire evening exploring the library at Castle Marvolo, Hermione was determined to go back the very next day. She wanted to make the most of her time in Ophidia.

But first, she was anxious to know the outcome of Astoria’s trial from the night before.

Since she didn’t know Astoria that well, she figured it would be better to tag along with Luna, who would no doubt be eagerly awaiting the news, also.

Knowing that Astoria could very possibly have been up all night, they waited until the sun was high in the sky before knocking on her door.

A little house-elf opened it and peered around the door before saying very quietly, “Mistress is still sleeping.” She seemed to sneer at them, her disapproval at the way they had chosen to disrupt her Mistress’s sleep evident on her tiny face.

Pheme, the house-elf that was assigned to help Hermione on the occasions when she needed something, didn’t stay with her in her bedroom and open doors for her. Hermione wondered if having her own castle-elf was a sign that Astoria was now the Mistress of the entire castle.

She felt a sharp pang of disappointment at the thought. She’d really wanted a chance to try to solve the riddle.

From the way her heart fell, though, there was no sense denying that she had also really wanted a chance to _win_. There was something about this country—and this King—that tugged at her. As Queen of Ophidia, she’d have the power and the influence to do something really important, truly worthwhile. She couldn’t help the feeling that this was the Big Thing that she was meant to do with her life.

Carefully, she pushed those feelings aside, while Luna politely asked the elf to let them know once Miss Greengrasidi was awake.

The witch herself appeared just then. “Sebeia, it’s okay, I’m up,” she said, with a yawn. “Is it morning already? I feel like I barely got any sleep.” Astoria’s hair was a tousled mess of light-brown waves. A green ribbon was sticking out of it like it had been meant to hold up her heavy hair and had faltered sometime during the night. Her nightrobes were silvery satin and lace, and her feet were bare. It was clear she had just climbed out of bed at hearing the visitors at the door.

“Mistress was up so late,” Sebeia complained. “She should go back to bed so she can rest before speaking with Master.” She cast a distrustful eye at the two foreigners. “Mistress should be telling her family first, not these two who do not bear the Mark of Ophidia.”

Astoria just shooed her away. “Sebeia, I’ll tell Mama and Baba later. Right now, I’m just getting up. These two are both Suitors, anyway, and so I’m sure it would be expected that anyone in the castle would hear any news first. Can you please get us some hot tea? And some of Cook’s galatopita would be lovely, too. I’m positively famished.”

The house-elf popped off to run her errand, but not without sending everyone a look of strong dissatisfaction first.

“Forgive Sebeia,” Astoria said, motioning the other two women to come inside. “She was my nursery house-elf and thinks I am still a child. She came with me to the castle, and her allegiance supposedly belongs to me, but you couldn’t possibly convince me that she’s not running home to report to Father every chance she gets.” The young woman shook her head affectionately at the quirks of her disagreeable house-elf.

The three had just sat themselves on the sofas, when Sebeia came back carrying a tray with a teapot and an entire milk pudding pie that was bigger than her head.

“Mistress will need all of her energy to face her parents,” she said, by way of explanation. Her little elf face reflected concern for a moment, before she turned to glare at Hermione again. “And rest. Hopefully Mistress’s visitors will not stay too long.”

“Thank you, Sebeia,” Astoria said, with a small smile. “I’ll be Floo-calling Baba directly, and then will take the day to rest. You can help me later to pack up our things so we can return home this evening.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the elf said with a tiny—but extremely elegant—curtsy, before she Disapparated.

Did everyone in Ophidia know how to curtsy properly?

“Are you leaving the castle, Astoria?” Luna asked. “You didn’t solve the riddle, then?”

“Oh no.” Astoria shuddered at the thought. “At least, I don’t think I did. I don’t remember anything beyond the doors of the Throne Room. I only remember coming out again feeling very tired. It must have been well past midnight.” She sighed. “Baba is going to be so disappointed. He was so sure that I was going to be the one. But I just can’t drum up enough sympathy for him, as it was _my_ life that he was hoping would be shackled to the King’s.”

Hermione felt an inward surge of relief at Astoria’s words. The riddle remained unsolved. She still had a chance. Her heart beat a tiny bit faster, the pounding in her ears obscuring what Luna asked next. Briefly, she closed her eyes trying to concentrate on the conversation around her, rather than the swell of anxiety and excitement running through her.

“Probably late this evening,” Astoria was saying, obviously as an answer to Luna’s question. “Steward Aidos met me after the trial. She’s usually very terrifying, I have to say. But she was very kind. She simply said—very formally, of course—that as I had failed the trial, I was welcome at Castle Marvolo for one more day as a guest, rather than as a Suitor. She might have meant I could leave tomorrow morning, but I see no reason to stay. Sebeia can have us packed up in a trice, and I can be asleep in my own bed by this evening.”

Her eyes lit up with excitement, then. “And I can start packing for my trip to Brittania! I’m very much looking forward to the adventure! Now that my trial is over, we only have to wait for you two to finish, and that shouldn’t be so terribly long.”

“But what if I win,” Hermione said, half-jokingly. “Hopefully that doesn’t change your plans.”

Astoria laughed. “Well that’s why I want to wait for you! I was originally going to leave when Luna was finished here, since her trial is supposed to come right after mine. But now that you’re here, I couldn’t possibly leave without finding out what happens!”

Abruptly, she lowered her voice, even though there wasn’t anyone else around to hear her. “And is it terrible of me to hope that one of us solves the riddle, just to see the look of horror on Lady Carrow’s face?” She giggled. “I heard she’s gotten herself all in a tizzy about the Mu—Muggleborn who has the approval of the former Queen, and the Prince Consort.”

Though Astoria stumbled over the original M-word that Lady Carrow had said, that was not the thing that set off little alarm bells in Hermione’s head. “What do you mean the approval of the Queen?”

“And the Prince Consort,” Astoria reminded her. “The whole castle is abuzz with the rumors. The portraits were all shocked at the way the two spoke with you yesterday, and especially the way the Queen talked about your power. They think she gave you her blessing. I’ve heard your name spoken of already a dozen times since yesterday, and not just because Lady Carrow has been using your name as a curse word. Queen Merope never did think much of her.”

It made Hermione uncomfortable to think of being the subject of so many rumors. Especially rumors that were unfounded. It was true that she’d talked at length with the royal portraits, but there had been nothing in their conversation that could be construed as a blessing. Even if there was, it wasn’t as if such a thing could affect the outcome of Hermione’s trial. She still had to solve the riddle, and prove herself both the smartest and the strongest of witches.

Astoria, on the other hand, was quite gleeful, and was happy to relay all the latest gossip that she’d somehow managed to hear between leaving them yesterday for her trial and waking up this morning.

Hermione wanted to hear about the trial from the night before, but unfortunately, the most pertinent things were exactly what Astoria couldn’t tell her. As all the others before her had reported, they remembered nothing of the trial beyond the doors. The instructions, given by Horkos, another castle-elf, were all the same.

A thought occurred to her, and she interrupted Astoria’s retelling of what she’d overheard one noble telling the other. “Luna, is your trial tonight, then?”

Luna considered the curiosity on Hermione’s face very carefully. “No, I didn’t receive a notice, or the robes.”

“He doesn’t see a Suitor every night.” Astoria shrugged. “He’d probably never get any sleep that way if he has to rule all day, and then stay up all night. I know he’s seen several Suitors in a row, but it’s not that often. Usually it’s only a few in a row.”

“How strange,” Hermione mused out loud. “You’d think he would have a more orderly schedule to follow. Something more predictable.” Surely he wasn’t going to just see Suitors as the whim took him. There must be conditions that they didn’t know about that would affect the outcome of the test.

She didn’t realize she’d been continuing to think out loud until Astoria said, with a laugh, “Well, he doesn’t ever seem to take Suitors when it rains. Maybe he doesn’t like bad weather.”

Something clicked in Hermione’s head. Perhaps there _was_ a pattern. “Does anyone want to go to—”

“—the library?” Luna finished for her. “I suppose we’d better.”

Excitement sparkled in Astoria’s eyes, as she suddenly didn’t look tired anymore. “I’ll be just a few moments. I need to make a Floo call to break my father’s heart.”

* * *

It was far more than a few moments before the trio could make their way to the Ophidian library.

They’d had to wait for Astoria to inform her father that she was no longer in competition for the King’s hand in marriage, and had to listen to her father simultaneously lament and berate his youngest daughter for her failure, while also offering her comfort and assurance that she always had a place with them in their ancestral home.

Astoria endured it all good-naturedly, before rushing him off. She didn’t bother informing him of her travel plans, since she said they were on hold, anyway, waiting for the outcome of Luna’s and Hermione’s trials.

After that, they had to track down a house-elf who worked for Castle Marvolo who could help them with the records of the Suitors. The obvious choice would be Steward Aidos, but the women all agreed that they’d rather not alert the Steward to the fact they were seeking that information.

In the end, it had been little Pheme that had been the most useful source of the information they needed. It turned out she had a weakness for Cook’s galatopita, and when asked to sit with the ladies and share their overly large plateful, she was all too happy to ‘rest her feet and exercise her mouth.’

Pheme had a wonderful memory, not just for the Suitors she’d served, but for all the goings-on in the castle. From all of the details she recalled, along with a handy calendar that Hermione drew up, they were able to piece together a record of which nights the Suitors had been called in for their trials. Names and country of origin, where known, were scribbled in beside the dates.

Armed with this data, and after a very full Pheme had wobbled her way out of the room, the three women finally made it to the library.

On the way, they filled Astoria in on the encounter with Lady Carrow from the night before. She scoffed at Lady Carrow’s arrogance, informing them that her social standing was certainly not as high as her brother’s. Even her title of ‘Lady’ was more of a self-styling since she was most certainly _not_ married to her brother.

They all agreed, though, that they needed to be extra careful while researching, as Lady Carrow’s spies could be everywhere.

Once again, they went to the Muggle History section, which was quite empty, and set themselves up in the center table. Surrounded by the empty tables and chairs, it was much easier for them to see someone trying to eavesdrop on their conversation or sneak a peek at their research.

Hermione unrolled the parchment with the records of the Suitor trials from the last several weeks. The three women stared at it for a moment.

“Well,” Hermione began, “weather records first, probably, since Astoria mentioned he didn’t hold the trials in the rain.”

“I’ll go retrieve those,” Luna volunteered, before she wandered off in the opposite direction from where those records were likely to be kept.

Astoria tapped one of the dates on the calendar in a thoughtful manner. “I’m going to look up a calendar on Ophidian historical dates, holidays, and ancient calendars. There might be something useful there.”

Hermione agreed, and stared at the parchment a few more minutes. What else did they know about the trials? They knew what nights the previous trials had taken place. They knew that no one could bring anything into the room, physically or magically. But what else? What else did everyone know?

With a start, she reached into the pocket of her robes and pulled out the maps there. One was the map of the Ophidian Library, and the other was the map of the castle that Steward Aidos had given her.

Using her finger, she traced a path to… the Throne Room. The private chamber of the King was only for formal audiences, and that was where all of the trials took place. Since nothing could be brought into the room, everything they could possibly need to solve the riddle must be in that room. What she needed was the blueprints for that room.

Using the library map she located the section that seemed likely to hold architectural information on the castle. But before she left the table, she hesitated, uncertain about leaving the parchment open for others to see, even secluded as they were.

She decided it was better to be safe than sorry, and she whispered an encoding spell on the parchment. The dates suddenly shuffled around, while the names flipped through the alphabet so quickly they were a blur to the eye. A moment later, an innocent looking calendar of Quidditch games lay on the table. For good measure, Hermione added a picture of Viktor Krum, the famous Bulgarian Seeker. She’d always had a bit of a soft spot for him, and not just because he was Ron’s favorite player. She liked his brooding intensity. He knew he was the best, and he was not ashamed to play to win each time he came onto the pitch.

Satisfied that the rest of their belongings were protected against intrusion, she headed off to the stacks.

To her surprise, there was book upon book upon parchment of information about Castle Marvolo. Everything from which kings commissioned which wings, to which quarries the stones were magically taken from. But there were no blueprints.

Looking for everything she could find with pictures and descriptions, she levitated them back to their study table, wondering if the others had been as successful in their hunt.

Her friends had not yet returned, but there was a woman of stubby stature leaning over their table, taking in the parchment scroll that covered it. Her hair was pulled back tightly in what appeared to be her customary chignon.

When the woman heard Hermione’s start of surprise, she glanced up, her eyes mocking. “Such silly things you young girls are wasting your time on, though I have to admit he is quite nice to look upon.”

Hermione pursed her lips, doing her best not to glance at the calendar on the table to see if the encryption spell still held. “Hello Lady Carrow,” she greeted her carefully. Remembering the stack of books she was bringing, she tried to remain casual. She reminded herself that even if Lady Carrow cared to find out what the books were, there was no way she could know what Hermione was looking for, and no way to use that information even if she did. Also, she probably already knew what the Throne Room looked like.

With her spine stiff and straight, she walked the rest of the distance to the table, setting the books down as if they were unimportant. “Come to take Luna up on her offer for the Wrackspurts?” she asked, allowing her amusement to come through in her voice.

Lady Carrow wrinkled her nose in distaste. “That awful girl is completely daft! There’s no such thing as Wrackspurts. It’s completely ridiculous she thinks she can attract the attention of the King.”

Straightening, she pointedly moved further away from where Hermione was standing. Her glare, and the careful way she swept her skirts away from touching her made her disdain clear. “The King would never choose you, either. You were foolish to come here so far from home.”

Hermione forbore to remind her that the purpose of the trial wasn’t to attract the attention of the King or to convince him to choose her as a bride, but to solve the magical riddle. Lady Carrow seemed to believe there was an element of personal choice involved, and as a result no doubt still thought the King was going to choose her.

“Heed my words well,” Lady Carrow continued. “When you fail your trial, you are to return to your country without delay. You would not wish to stay and make any further enemies.” Her low voice and the venom behind it made the threat unmistakable.

“Of course,” Hermione agreed, causing Lady Carrow to narrow her eyes in suspicion. “If I lose, I have no intention of remaining much longer in this country, though I may stay an extra day or two to explore the library and perhaps see some other sights.” She smiled benignly at the woman.

The Ophidian woman waited, disbelieving that the young Brittanian could be so amenable to being threatened.

Hermione let the silence stretch for several moments, until Lady Carrow opened her mouth to speak again, and then Hermione quickly cut her off.

“Although, _if_ I win, I will be remaining here in Ophidia. And I will be very pleased to deal quickly with any enemies I may have made. I’m sure you understand.” She smiled again, equally as benign, and watched Lady Carrow’s face harden in anger.

Her gloved fists clenched and unclenched around the skirts of her expensive dress robes, while her face started to turn that same darker shade of fury from their last encounter.

But before she could retaliate, Luna and Astoria came into view, both of them levitating stacks of books.

“Why Lady Carrow!” Luna exclaimed, as she set her books on the table in a haphazard pile with loose newspapers spilling over the top. “How excited I am to see you! Oh, dear, and you don’t look much better than the last time. Sit, sit, I’ll be happy to take care of that with a spell.” She raised her wand as if she was going to cast the spell without even waiting for Lady Carrow to sit, and Lady Carrow flinched in disgust.

“Ridiculous girl,” she bit out. “Don’t you dare touch me!” She glanced over at Astoria who was calmly seating herself at the table and preparing to open her first book. “What shame to your _family_ that you would _fraternize_ with these _filthy foreigners_.”

Astoria started to stand, angrily, when Luna laughed very loudly and clapped her hands.

The others looked at her, confused.

She said, “That was a very nice alliteration, Lady Carrow! _Positively pleasant_ to the ear.” She popped each of her P’s to emphasize them, beaming at Lady Carrow with pride. “Though _perhaps perturbing_ once one _perceives_ its less than _peaceful_ , though _painfully popular_ , view _point_.” Her face suddenly fell. “Oh, that last word was technically a ‘v.’ I almost made it.”  She shook her head in disappointment, long curls bouncing, before turning to Lady Carrow, who was gaping at her, baffled.

No, _perplexed_ , Hermione corrected inwardly, with a small smile.

The conversation was very effectively halted, as all attention was on the blonde’s unruffled expression. “It’s your turn now,” Luna told her, gently, as if she were a child who needed to be prodded. “I suggest an ‘s.’ The sibilance seems quite suitable to the situation.” She suddenly clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh no, I took your turn by accident.”

Lady Carrow sputtered, her face growing angrier and angrier though she couldn’t seem to think of anything to say that didn’t make her look more like a fool. She finally repeated herself, “Ridiculous girl!” before sweeping away in a huff.

The three women watched her leave in tense silence.

When Hermione heard the quiet _‘Muffliato’_ that signaled it was safe to talk, she burst into laughter. She was not the only one.

Astoria was bent double over her pile of books, her own gloved hand lightly pounding the tabletop in her mirth. “Oh, Circe!” she gasped. “Her face. Purple…peeved…”

“Pointedly provoked,” Hermione added, causing more laughter.

“P-p-piqued.” Astoria could barely get the word out as she tried to breathe.

“Paroxysmal!” Hermione said, triumphantly, and the two women howled even harder as the tension of the unpleasant confrontation drained away.

Taking deep breaths, Astoria wiped her eyes from the tears that had gathered there, while Hermione suppressed her giggles.

Luna sat serenely, flipping through the pages of one of the books she’d brought. Once she realized the others had finished with their laughter, she raised one eyebrow at them and said, very distinctly, “Preposterously puerile.”

They started laughing again.

“I meant the two of you!” Luna told them, before her peals of laughter joined theirs.

The Muffliato was not enough to hide their hilarity, and an Ophidian passing by frowned at them, reminding them that they were in a library. They quickly quieted, though not without exchanging highly amused glances first.

Hermione hoped Lady Carrow had heard their laughter. That woman was completely insufferable. If her own determination to solve the riddle wasn’t already at the highest level, those thinly veiled threats would have boosted it considerably.

“Well,” she said, getting back to the business at hand, “that was fun.”

“Is it safe to talk?” Astoria asked, being unfamiliar with the Muffliato spell. “I would not put it past her to try to continue eavesdropping.”

“Safer than speaking openly,” Luna answered. “But let’s assume that everything we say is still partially compromised.” She waved her hand at the parchment. “I like what you’ve done with our Calendar, Hermione. I’ve always been quite partial to Viktor Krum myself.”

Wordlessly, Hermione reversed the encryption spell, though she left the picture of Krum on it. Now that the notations were back in their proper order, Luna immediately began filling in some of the information from the weather reports that she’d gathered.

Astoria had been correct that no Suitors were ever seen during bad weather. After Astoria removed a few more options from the calendar, for important Ophidian holidays and special events, it was clear they’d accounted for the vast majority of the dates of the calendar.

Quietly, they discussed what the significance of the weather could mean. There were still several days of clear weather when Riddle did not receive any Suitors.  Was it simply because King Riddle needed a break, or was there another component to the pattern that they were missing?

Remembering her idea about the Throne Room, Hermione gave each of the girls a book, and they flipped through the pictures. Astoria couldn’t remember having ever been in the Throne Room, other than the night before, so she wasn’t any help in describing it.

They found a couple of older pictures, from before Queen Merope’s reign, when apparently the castle had been completely redecorated. It showed the Throne Room as a curious octagonal room towards the center of the castle. With wide double-doors on one end, the thrones were set against the wall directly opposite.

The polished marble floor showed a large design with a serpent, the rather sinister-looking Mark of Ophidia.

Hermione didn’t see anything else of interest in the Throne Room to indicate why the weather might be important to the trial.

“Oh, this is interesting,” said Luna, calling the women’s attention to the pages of her book.

Hermione looked over to see an article about the ceiling of the Throne Room.

“There is an oculus in the center that for many centuries was open, allowing the light to enter the chamber,” Luna told them, paraphrasing what she had read. “In the 15th century, the King had the oculus glassed over like a window, allowing the light in, but keeping out the rain. The design is beautiful.” She flipped the book over to show the others what looked like a stylized stained-glass style rendering of the shape of the country of Ophidia. It spread out elegantly from the center, the mountain ranges and the rivers detailed in various colors of glass.

Looking at it, Hermione felt an unfamiliar longing come over her. She wasn’t sure she could feel Ophidia singing, the way Luna described it, but there was no denying that she felt a powerful connection to this land. She touched the design on the page, tracing the outline of the country’s borders, and letting the information they’d acquired filter through her brain.

She looked back at the older pictures of the room, and it suddenly came clear to her.

“I need an almanac,” she said.

Luna considered this request for a minute before saying, “Of course. That explains why he only does the trials at night.” She dug around in her weather books for a bit, before retrieving an almanac. “Try this.”

They opened the pages to the corresponding months, and Hermione compared the dates. Carefully, she crossed out the nights of the new moon. Then she crossed out any nights when the moon set too soon after the sun set, or when it rose too close to the dawn. It corresponded perfectly.

“It’s the moonlight,” Astoria said, quietly. “The riddle must require the presence of moonlight. So the moon must be present, and the sky must be clear.”

Hermione stared at the calendar. It didn’t show the timeframe of the entirety of the competition, but she was certain that if they traced the dates all the way back to the beginning, it would follow the same pattern. They’d found the answer to the question of why Riddle only saw Suitors on certain days. But what was the significance? Had they really learned anything?

Waving a hand over the calendar, Luna encrypted it. Once again, it showed dates of Quidditch matches. She rolled it up and then handed it over to Hermione. “It may not be much of an advantage, but it’s best to keep it carefully hidden.”

Still thinking, Hermione pulled out a new piece of parchment and a fresh Self-Inking quill. She started jotting down all the things she knew of that were affected or influenced by moonlight.

Astoria looked at Hermione’s growing list and groaned. “You mean we have to do more research?”

Looking up, Hermione exclaimed, “Oh, of course not! You and Luna can both go. I don’t mean to ruin your plans. But I want to use what time I have before my trial to learn as much as I can.” She smiled at her, ruefully. “You don’t know me well enough yet, but I’m well known for always researching _something_ in the closest library. I’m happy for the company and the help, but I can do it myself. In the end, it will only be whatever knowledge I can take in my head, anyway.”

Astoria sighed. “Oh, I’ll help. It’s for a good cause. But I’ll let my parents know I probably won’t be home for supper after all.”

“I’ll take the section on Magizoology,” Luna volunteered, getting up to put her books away, and retrieve some new ones.

Astoria stopped her. “Oh, wait!”

The two Brittanians looked at her while her brow furrowed in thought. “Your wand. Your wand tracks the history of what books you look at.” She paused, thinking furiously. “Use your wand to pull out books, and to copy sections of material that are unrelated to what you want. If somehow Lady Carrow, or anyone else, has found a way to access our browsing history, the least we can do is overwhelm them with irrelevant information.”

They all nodded in agreement.

“I guess I’ll take Magizoology, and competitive synchronized animal herding,” Luna said.

With a grin, Astoria added, “I’ll take potions ingredients and Muggle culinary accomplishments.”

Hermione looked at her two new friends, overcome with warm feelings for their good-natured support. “I’ll take transformative spellwork and anything they have on how to rule a country. ‘Lessons on Being a Queen’ or something similar.”

Astoria snorted at that. “Lady Carrow will have a fit at your _presumptuousness_.” She popped her ‘P’ on purpose.

“ _Precisely_ my _point_ ,” Hermione said, and the three dissolved into giggles again as they separated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)


	6. Chapter 6

The nerves were making her hands damp. She’d arrived early, and the sun still had a few more moments before setting, which meant that she had a few more moments to try to calm the rapid beating of her heart.

The moon wasn’t due to rise for another couple of hours, so there was no need for urgency. She had plenty of time.

She switched her wand from one hand to the other so she could wipe her palm on her heavy white robes. She was glad that the robes were thicker than they looked, as she felt decidedly uncomfortable about being completely bare underneath them.

Astoria and Luna hadn’t seemed to mind much. Luna had said, “Well, it could have been a requirement to be skyclad, instead.”

Astoria had rolled her eyes and said, “How do you know it’s not? It could very well be that you’re expected to take it off once you’re inside. Maybe ‘solving a riddle’ is just a euphemism for…you know.” She’d laughed and added, “Maybe that’s why Lady Carrow was so certain she would win.”

But Lady Carrow had failed. And Pheme had reported that Lady Carrow had been removed from the castle after being particularly nasty to some of the house-elves who hadn’t treated her with the deference she felt was due to her. Steward Aidos, of course, being a house-elf herself, and ruling the household with a very tiny iron thumb, had not stood for that kind of behavior. Lady Carrow had been gently, but firmly, removed from the Suitors’ Wing.

Pheme confided that she had never liked the lady with the mean face, who looked at everything in the castle, including the King, as if it belonged to her.

Hermione had felt a thrill of vindication that Lady Carrow’s threats and bluster landed her no closer to the throne and to the King.

Despite having failed her own trial, Luna had been able to provide one last, solid piece of evidence for Hermione. Before going into her trial she’d carefully folded the edges of her white sleeves. Knowing that she would remember nothing about her experience when she got out, she had no way to carry a message to herself or the others.

But Luna had decided she would ask Riddle for confirmation about the importance of the moonlight. She had plenty of time for questions, and she felt confident the King would answer her, knowing she would not be able to remember the answer. But this one question she could confirm or deny.

When she came out of the trial, Hermione was waiting for her back at her rooms. Luna walked in with an even more dazed expression than normal, and a single, sloppily unrolled sleeve. While the left remained meticulously folded, the right one was hanging loose.

Riddle had confirmed that the moonlight was integral to the solving of the magical riddle. And Luna had unrolled the corresponding sleeve so that even though she couldn’t remember what else she had learned, Hermione had that much more assurance that she was on the right track.

News of Hermione’s discussion in the Portrait Gallery had filtered through the ranks of the Ophidian nobles. Lady Carrow was not the only Ophidian who considered Hermione and her Muggle-born heritage to be a threat to their country’s values.

The three friends agreed that with the knowledge they had uncovered about the trial, and with the discussions about the Brittanian Muggle-born that were circulating, it was safest for Hermione not to wander around alone.

Currently, Luna was a temporary guest of the Greengrasidi household. She hadn’t wanted to miss the outcome of Hermione’s trial, and so had insisted on staying in Ophidia. Astoria and her family had graciously offered to host her.

Much of the remaining time before her trial had been spent researching. Though they continued to use their same table in the Muggle History section of the library, they were undisturbed. They looked up as much information as they possibly could on moonlight and its properties. Occasionally, a few people would pass by with guarded looks on their faces, but they never talked to the women directly.

Astoria was making notes of every person and every look, but so far she hadn’t revealed what that information told them about the political landscape. She insisted Hermione needed to concentrate on her research and on solving the riddle. If she didn’t solve the riddle, all of the rest was moot, anyway.

Still, they’d had plenty of time to explore. Astoria was, as ever, an extremely informed guide.

Hermione had insisted they stop by the Quidditch Museum, so she could buy something for her friends back home. They didn’t have to know she only made it as far as the lobby and the gift shop. A quick stop by the owl post to send off the presents, and then she was ready to go visit the one other place she’d really wanted to see.

Astoria had made sure they Apparated to a point just outside the marketplace, so that Hermione could take in the full view of Vertic.

Much like Diagon Alley back home in Brittania, Vertic was the home to all the popular businesses, meeting the magical needs of the wizards and witches in Lagus. Unlike Brittania, which had the entrance to Diagon hidden behind a Muggle pub, Vertic was a huge tower rising up into the sky. Where the Brittanians had to hide their magical heritage out of fear for their safety and well-being, Vertic Alley was a monument to Ophidia’s greatest claim: that wizardingkind should never have to hide their true nature.

Even from a distance, Hermione could see the evidence that magic was used to keep the tower standing. From inside, the criss-crossing of ropes, hanging bridges, and the shops sticking out at improbable angles only emphasized that fact.

For hours the women wandered, Astoria steering them to the best vendors of fine wares, and the highest quality Ophidian food.

To Hermione’s surprise, there were several witches and wizards, particularly among the more expensive vendors, that already recognized her. With subtle gestures and meaningful looks, they offered outrageously discounted prices, sometimes even tucking additional items into the bags without charging for them.

Though Hermione tried to protest, and though Luna frowned very heavily, Astoria graciously accepted on behalf of all of them. To each one she said the same thing, “Your kindness and generosity will be remembered.”

Hermione began to see the subtle maneuvering for what it was, the tentative overtures of friendship and political alliance. Like the Greengrasidi family, they believed that Hermione was a very special Suitor. In the event she won the throne, they wanted the advantage of having shown their acceptance beforehand.

It was also clear that Astoria was not only steering her towards certain people, but away from others. There were some vendors who sneered at her as she passed, their forbidding looks indicating that she was not welcome in their shops. Prejudice against Muggle-borns ran high, but most of the other patrons and shopkeepers had no idea of her heritage. So besides those few shops that were closed to them, the women were undisturbed in their shopping.

Later, Hermione would think how overwhelming it was to know she had already met and earned the goodwill of those who might become her future subjects. As well as the ire and the enmity of still others.

Hermione shook her head as she remembered the experience, trying to clear those thoughts out. As Astoria said, she needed to win first. She needed to forget about everyone who might be waiting beyond the walls of the castle and focus only on the task ahead.

A very solemn looking house-elf, wearing a House Marvolo uniform with brilliant silver embroidery, approached her.

“Miss Granger of Brittania,” he addressed her formally, with a slight bow of his head. His voice was slow and a little hoarse, as if he were very old. “Horkos will receive your oath now.”

“Of course,” Hermione said, wondering if she was supposed to curtsy. Of all the things she’d forgotten to look up!

“Horkos must touch your wand, miss,” he said, holding out his little hand.

Hermione held the vinewood wand out to him, but he didn’t take it. He just grabbed the very tip of it.

“Your wand is Peace-Bonded according to Ophidian requirements. Know that you may not cause any harm to the King while you are in his presence, and during this trial the King may not cause any harm to you. You may bring nothing into the chamber besides your wand, and the robes that you were given. Your tools are the knowledge in your head, the power of your magic, and the skill you have at wielding both.” With his free hand, the house-elf had pointed to her head, and to her wand, and then to her heart, in turn with his words.

Hermione felt that heart, the one she’d finally calmed down, begin to race again. This was the moment of truth. She would test her limits tonight. She would face her destiny tonight. She was certain, as certain as she ever was of anything, that her destiny lay on the other side of those doors.

“Everything you will require to solve the magical riddle will be available to you within,” Horkos said, gesturing at the room behind him. “You may not conjure items from outside the chamber. You may not transfigure items into something other than what they are.” He repeated again, “Everything you will require to solve the magical riddle will be available to you within.”

She nodded, understanding that the prohibition was more than just a request, it would no doubt be impossible for her to do any of those things once she was inside.

“If it is clear that you are unable to solve the riddle, Miss Granger, you will be placed outside these doors. An Obliviation spell, performed by the King himself, will remove your memory of the trial. This memory, and this memory only, must be removed to protect the safety of the King and the integrity of the trial. But you must agree. If you do not wish to proceed, now is your last chance to turn back.”

The King must indeed be very powerful to perform so many very specific memory spells. Hermione took a deep breath. “I wish to proceed, Horkos. I agree to the Obliviation in the event that I fail to solve the riddle.”

Her wand glowed briefly with the house-elf magic, and then Horkos lifted his hand away. She saw a small white band of light at the bottom of her wand, much like the marking it had in the library.

“This light marks the place in your memory to which you will be returned.” With another little bow of his head, he stepped aside. “May you be quick of wit and quick of wand, and may the gods shine on us this night if Ophidia meets her new Queen.”

The last edge of the sun dipped below the horizon. And the doors cracked open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)


	7. Chapter 7

Taking a deep breath, Hermione pushed open the heavy doors, noting that they moved easily.

As she had expected from the pictures and descriptions in the books, the room was extremely large. The fading light from the sun filtered through the oculus in the center of the domed ceiling, illuminating the Mark of Ophidia that was on the floor, but not reaching the edges of the chamber, leaving each of the eight walls in near darkness.

Directly beneath the oculus, and capturing her attention immediately, was a beautiful fountain. The large basin was several feet across, and a woman carved from stone rose out of it, face and arms upraised. From her fingers, the water cascaded in streams that glittered in the remains of the daylight, to drip into the pool at her feet.

Like the marble statues in the Portrait Gallery, the lifelike carving almost seemed to breathe. Hermione approached it, entranced by the expression on the woman’s face. Her eyes were closed, but she had a look of such joy and contentment, as if she communed with the sky and bridged the gap between heaven and earth.

Hermione stood before it for several moments, marveling at the workmanship. As she walked around the perimeter of the fountain to get a better look, she realized with a start that directly behind the fountain, the King sat in his throne, watching her.

His face was in darkness, set so far back against the wall, whereas she knew her own face was well-lit by the light from the oculus that even now was swiftly fading.

It occurred to her that she ought to have approached him immediately and presented herself. She stood in the presence of a King and had yet to acknowledge him.

A part of her was tempted to continue her perusal of the room as if he was not there, but she had long ago decided that the best way to solve the riddle was to get to know the man. And she had time before the moon rose.

Turning from the fountain, she approached him, her back straight and tall though her hands were shaking. She tried to hide them in the folds of her white robes.

As she got closer, she could make out his features in the semi-darkness more clearly. He was watching her, but he did not speak.

She decided against the curtsy. She wasn’t particularly good at it, anyway. Instead, she inclined her head and bowed, much like she’d seen Horkos do.

“Your Majesty,” she said, “my name is Hermione Granger.” That seemed like the logical place to start. But what next? She couldn’t very well ask him what his name was, as if she didn’t know. She wracked her mind for something that would be appropriate to begin a conversation.

From her memories, she heard her mother’s lessons on propriety. _Always thank the host_.

“I thank you for the hospitality and the kindness you and your castle staff have shown to a traveler. I have wanted for nothing since I have arrived, I have been treated most generously, and I have enjoyed the rare privilege to stay as your guest.”

If the King was surprised at her words, she couldn’t tell with his face so far into shadow. “You are very welcome, Miss Granger,” he said, equally as formally as she. “Castle Marvolo is pleased to host such a worthy witch as yourself, and is honored by your choice to participate in the competition for the next Queen of Ophidia.”

His voice was very smooth, musical, and had the tiniest hint of a cultured accent. Though his deep voice was not raised, she felt it resonate in her belly as if he were standing right beside her.

A slight shiver went down her back. Her reaction surprised her, though it shouldn’t have. She’d seen him at dinner for the last several nights, and each time she got the same shiver. She thought perhaps talking to the man directly would have reminded her that he was only another wizard, reducing the butterflies she felt in her stomach. But if anything, it just set them to fluttering harder.

She gulped her nerves back and raised her eyes to meet his. The intensity of his gaze pierced her, and she fought the urge to look back down again.

“I am at your service, Your Majesty,” she said. “I understand I am tasked to solve a riddle. Do you have instructions for me?”

He leaned forward on his throne just the tiniest bit, enough for her to see the beginnings of a smile form on his face. “You do well to ask before you begin. I cannot reveal any answers to you, but I can give you instructions.”

He gestured to his left, to the empty space that would normally have been for a matching throne. There stood a marble pedestal. A small cube that appeared to be made of crystal sat on top of it, surrounded by faint blue flames, as if of fire. The flames flickered and danced, but did not appear to burn the cube.

Hermione couldn’t be sure from this distance, but she was willing to bet that it gave off no heat, as a normal fire would.

“Your task is to put out the flames,” he said, simply.

She thought about his words carefully, though she made no move to investigate the cube. “Is that the riddle?”

He very nearly smiled at her again, and said, “No, the riddle will provide the answer to accomplishing the task. It is written on the fountain, but I will tell it to you.”

Hermione nodded, relieved that she would not be required to memorize the riddle.

He eyed her, as if assessing her worth, while she waited patiently beneath his gaze.

In that same musical tone, he recited,

_“Artemis lets loose her shaft,_

_Twixt dusk and dawn,_

_To pierce the heart of fire._

_Poseidon's bounty,_

_Seven from one,_

_To release your heart's desire.”_

She wondered what could possibly be inside the box. Was it different for every person? Surely the ‘heart’s desire’ of one person would be different from another’s. There was something about the way his voice lingered on that last word that made her think he was referring to other… _desires_.

But she couldn’t think about that right now, not with his eyes still holding hers and his voice still echoing in the room. It was far too distracting.

“Your Majesty,” she began, appalled when her voice came out thin and breathy. She took a deliberate breath, steeled herself, and started again. “Your Majesty, am I free to speak while I work? That is, shall I converse with you, or will you simply observe the trial?”

He met her question with silence, and then he eventually answered, “You are free to speak as you like. I will, likewise, speak when I am moved to do so.”

She nodded, and with another slight bow, she backed away to look at the riddle that was engraved on the fountain, knowing it was the next step that was expected from her.

After she recited it to herself several times, to try to find the subtle nuances, she walked away from the fountain.

She still had time before the moon rose, and she intended to use it to examine her surroundings more closely.

Each of the walls had a display case. Jewelry, art, books—attractively displayed.

She looked at the books first. They were very old, their fragile bindings evident even through the glass. Her fingers itched to touch them, to see what knowledge they contained.

One of the books was open, arranged to display the pages. But the pages were blank. She thought for a moment she saw a line of ink flutter across the faded yellow sheets, but she blinked, and the surface was clear again.

“I love books,” she said, casually. Her voice echoed in the room, though she was not speaking loudly. “The promise of a hidden piece of knowledge before you open the cover. The smell of parchment that has been preserved through the ages.” She didn’t look back to see how he would respond, and so was unsurprised when her comments were met with silence.

She continued looking, trying to decipher some of the runes on the spines. When she took a step backwards, as if to move on, she yelped in surprise when she bumped into an object that hadn’t been there before.

Whirling, she found herself face to face with the King.

He was not so tall and imposing as she’d thought from seeing him from afar. Her head came to his shoulders, a normal height for less remarkable wizards.

But his eyes were just as dark as his pictures. They seemed to stare right into her, and she hoped he couldn’t truly read her mind the way the rumors said he could. She wondered if bumping into him had inadvertently opened a pathway directly into her thoughts.

Very slowly, he reached his arm past her to touch the glass of the case.

She realized her pulse was pounding very fast at his nearness, as his movement brought his face even closer to hers.

“This volume here,” he said, lightly tapping the glass, in a way that turned her attention from his handsome face back toward the case. “It is the only known copy in existence on elemental runes and blood magic, written by a wizard whose name has been nearly forgotten by history.”

Fascinated, she looked at it more closely. It was sitting on top of the stack, the cover such a dark green as to be almost black. She could just make out faded silvery lettering, but something about it seemed very sinister. It was obviously a Dark book. She wondered why there were no other copies. “Such blood magic is very dangerous,” she said, instead, thinking she didn’t want the answer to her other question. “Forbidden by many cultures, in fact.”

Riddle brought his arm down and stood beside her as they looked at the case. “I have heard many things about you, Miss Granger.”

The blush on her face was immediate. She hoped it wasn’t the rumors that she was going to be the next Queen because she’d talked to a portrait.

He continued as if he hadn’t seen her reaction, to which she was thankful. “You are, by all accounts, extremely intelligent, fiercely loyal, innovative. You love books; I understand that this is already a well-known fact. Tell me, do you value learning above all things, Miss Granger? Do you thrill to the knowledge contained in ancient tomes such as these? Do you not feel such knowledge should be preserved, learned from?”

She swallowed, sensing in his words a mire she could get trapped in. “There are many things I value, learning and knowledge are but some of them. I believe in goodness and light and the responsibility to do what is right. When those things are in conflict with learning and knowledge, sometimes we must choose to preserve one over the other.”

Despite the uncomfortable feeling she had at having just disagreed with him, he didn’t seem to mind at all. The opposite, in fact, seemed to be true, as his dark eyes lit up at her answer. “But Miss Granger, how can we know whether something is right or wrong, useful or dangerous, if we do not first investigate? If we learn of that which requires a warning, are we not remiss if we do not sound that warning, and provide a sound basis in fact?”

His words seemed almost slippery, they were so smooth as they flowed through her mind. “I—I suppose so,” she found herself saying.

When he didn’t say anything further, she turned back to the case and pointed out the other book, the one she’d noticed earlier. “Why does this one seem to have blank pages? Whose work is it?”

“That one is mine,” he said. “It is blank because it is for history that has yet to be written.”

She smiled broadly at him as if he had told a joke, but the look on his face was very serious. She wondered what he planned to do with his life that none of it yet seemed worthy of recording.

Continuing to walk along the walls, she came to the next case. Unlike the other cases, which she could see were filled with a variety of different objects, this one only had two. They were so small that at first glance, she’d thought the case was empty. Suspended in midair were two rings linked together. One was an intricate, jeweled antique, and the other was a heavy gold band with Greek words engraved on it.

Hermione leaned in close to see if she could make out what the words said.

“My parents’ wedding rings,” King Riddle said, though she hadn’t asked. He gently placed his hand on the glass.

Hermione stared at his face. The memory of his parents seemed to cause him a moment of sadness. She thought she caught a glimpse of a more vulnerable man, but then it was hidden again.

She turned to look back at the rings, thinking it was sweet how he’d preserved this tribute to their love. She hated to admit it, but it did give her a little hope. Despite the Ophidian prejudices against Muggle-borns, Queen Merope had married one, elevating his status to higher than all the Purebloods in the land. For love.

If the Ophidians had accepted him, they might accept another Muggle-born ruling over them. As the child of a Muggle-born and a Pureblood, Riddle himself was a Half-blood. She tried not to hope that perhaps his heritage made him more open to the prospect of marrying—and maybe even, one day, loving—a Muggle-born wife.

She knew she was flushing again, and she didn’t want him to ask about it, so she moved towards the other cases, intent on learning as much as she could about the room before she started solving the riddle.

Two of the other cases held more jewelry. Necklaces, more rings, even the occasional crown sparkled at her. She imagined that the Marvolo family must have many priceless jewels. If these were chosen to be displayed in the Throne Room, they must have a special significance, or be even more valuable than they looked.

Riddle didn’t offer any information about any of the items in those cases.

“When Lady Carrow spoke with me,” Hermione said, deliberately understating their interactions, “she mentioned a Silver Crown. She seemed particularly intent on having it. Is that here in one of these cases?”

The King frowned, shaking his head, an irritated glint in his eye. “Lady Carrow was far too presumptuous.” His jaw clenched before he explained further. “The Silver Crown is the crown for the Consort. Like mine,” he indicated the crown that was settled against his forehead, “it is plain and silver, to represent the responsibility of the rulers to care for the ruled over. It is…not simply a prize to be won. It does not surprise me that she would refer to it in such an unseemly way.”

“You do not seem to like her very much,” Hermione observed.

He did not respond, but the look in his eye made his feelings very clear.

Hermione tried to hide her smile as she followed him to where he stopped in front of the next case.

It was filled with a variety of golden items. Jeweled eggs, coins, cups, plates, and trinkets. The way they were arranged resembled a dragon’s hoard. The treasure glowed invitingly, tempting to the avaricious. But everyone knew to steal from a dragon was incredible folly. Perhaps that was the message of the display.

“How beautiful,” was Hermione’s only comment, as she lightly passed it by.

As she came to the last case, she could feel Riddle stop a pace behind her, watching for her reaction.

Clay, marble, and stone depicted creatures of the earth and the air and the water. Statuettes of gryffins, phoenixes, and unicorns stood mixed with lions, badgers, and eagles. It took her a moment of staring to realize that the sinuous surface they all stood upon was actually a large snake. Its head curved up toward the top of the case as if it was protecting all of the animals it was coiled around.

The snake was the symbol of Ophidia, so it made sense that it would be the largest of all the animals.

She took an extra step closer, examining the intricate work. Riddle didn’t volunteer any information on the figurines or on their creators, and she didn’t ask. She did note that each of the animals was displayed in a position of power and pride, a truly magnificent collection.

As she turned away, she had the uncanny feeling that the eyes of the snake followed her. She couldn’t help but turn back to check, but the carven image remained motionless.

She faced the King just in time to catch the faintest glimpse of humor in his eyes at her actions.

Thinking over everything she had just seen, she asked him, “Do the other objects in the room have anything to do with the solving of the riddle?” She half expected him not to answer such a bold question.

After a moment of thought, he said with deliberation, “Everything you need to solve the riddle and complete the task, is in this room. You do not need any of the objects that are in the cases, if that is your question.”

She nodded, as she began to wander back towards the fountain that had the riddle written on it. “Thank you for answering.”

He walked in step beside her and she asked, conversationally, “Was everything collected by you, or are they from collections of previous monarchs?”

The King’s gaze flicked around the room, taking in each display in turn, and then he said, “They are mine. Chosen carefully, displayed very particularly.” He paused as if he would say something more, but instead the room fell into silence once more.

Feeling slightly uncomfortable, she said, “I’m sorry if my comments distract you, but I do wish to make the most of my time here in Ophidia, and seeing the inside of your Throne Room is an incredible honor.”

He looked at her very directly, then, and said in a pointed manner, “There have been many Suitors who have cared more about having a night alone with the King, for conversation or… other things… than about solving the riddle. Or who thought they could win the throne through seduction.”

“Pardon me?” Hermione challenged, her eyes flashing suddenly. Did he really think she was just playing for time to try to seduce him instead of working on the riddle?

“Sometimes I am amenable,” he added, sparking her ire even further. His dark eyes had brightened considerably, either in amusement at her or at the prospect of being seduced.

“That—that’s preposterous!“ she sputtered, before the popping p’s reminded her of the conversation with Lady Carrow. Lady Carrow no doubt had tried every which way to win the throne except for actually solving the riddle. Astoria had said she wasn’t terribly bright, and likely didn’t stand much of a chance to begin with. It wasn’t that far-fetched to think that other women might have taken advantage of being alone with the King. He was, admittedly, extremely attractive and…virile.

Hermione felt her cheeks turn a bright red as her gaze connected with his.

His smile grew a tiny bit more, drawing her attention to his mouth.

Unwittingly, her mind spun with lascivious images of that mouth on her body, causing her to be even more aware of the fact that she wore nothing beneath her chaste white robes. She hoped fervently that he wasn’t able to see what she was thinking of.

Forcefully, she pushed those thoughts away and had just opened her mouth to protest once more, to explain fully her every intention to treat the trial with the utmost professionalism—when her wand vibrated.

She jumped at the sudden sensation in her hand, before she realized that it was the alarm that she’d set to signal when the moon rose.

It was time to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very special thanks to my husband who wrote the riddle, and who also designed the vast majority of the riddle test featured in the next chapters. Without the riddle, there’d be no story.
> 
> S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)


	8. Chapter 8

“Moonrise,” King Riddle commented, his eyes hard on hers. All trace of his almost-jocular manner was completely gone.

“How did you know?” Hermione asked, shutting off her alarm. It occurred to her that maybe she should have made it more subtle.

The King remained unmoving for a moment, and then he turned to walk back toward his throne on the dais. He said, casually, over his shoulder, “I always know when the moon rises.”

The chamber was very dark now. During the time they had walked around the room, the light from the sun had almost completely gone and the moon had not yet risen high enough to give off very much of a glow. Hermione’s eyes had begun to adjust, but losing Riddle suddenly in the darkness reminded her that she needed light to work by.

A Lumos verified that there were no torches or lights in the room. With a couple of quick spells, she fashioned several balls of light that she attached to some of the corners of the room. They could be dimmed or snuffed with a simple command, but easily relighted. This kept her from having to divert her energy into maintaining light.

Riddle’s face was once again visible, but there was no expression to indicate whether he found her solution impressive.

As she approached the fountain, she realized she didn’t need a light to read the riddle written on the fountain. It glowed serenely.

She examined the words again, knowing they’d had time to settle into her mind.

_Artemis lets loose her shaft, ‘Twixt dusk and dawn, To pierce the heart of fire._

Artemis was the goddess of the hunt and of the moon. The ‘shaft’ would refer to an arrow from her bow, but clearly also referred to—“Moonlight,” she whispered to herself. The time between dusk and dawn was when the moonlight would shine the brightest.

“Yes,” Riddle confirmed for her, making it clear even tiny sounds would carry to his ears in this room. His voice sounded very amused again. “So your friend said, as well. That part of the riddle is not very difficult to guess, which is why I allowed her to carry her message out to you. It didn’t tell you anything you wouldn’t have immediately deduced on your own.”

Shocked, Hermione turned to him. “You knew?” As soon as she said so, she realized that of course he would know. He’d not only had an entire evening of conversation with Luna, which she couldn’t remember, he also had access, if he had so chosen, to all of their library browsing history. He would have known exactly what they were researching and why.

It irritated her to be a source of amusement to him. She scowled, and turned back to the riddle.

Taking a breath, she refocused her concentration on the words in front of her.

_Poseidon’s bounty, Seven from one, To release your heart’s desire._

The ‘heart of fire’ and the ‘heart’s desire’ were obviously the cube, still engulfed, but not consumed by, the flames surrounding it. Riddle had said as much when he told her the task was to free the box from the fire.

She read the riddle again, noting the reference to Poseidon, god of the oceans.

It must be a reference to water, and so the fountain was more than just a decoration and a convenient location to present the riddle. It was not included in any of the pictures she’d seen of the Throne Room, so it was possible it was an addition especially for this contest. ‘Seven from one’ might be a reference to the seven seas.

Fire, water, moonlight. There was a connection between these things, and it barely required any intelligence at all to discern as much. She was almost disappointed before she remembered that dozens and dozens of witches had tried and failed to solve this riddle. It could not be so easy.

She looked at the box again, trying to avoid making eye contact with Riddle. It was difficult, because he was like a magnet for her gaze, and she knew every move she made was being closely watched by him.

What would an obvious person do? What would be the most logical way to put out a fire?

Douse it with water. She could not create water, she could not bring in water from another location. Fortunately, she was provided with an abundance of water.

But that couldn’t possibly be the answer. And if she tried, and used up all the water trying to put out the flames, she couldn’t make more.

Muttering under her breath, she took a very small quantity of water from the fountain, and she funneled it through the air to the box. It landed on the surface and promptly disappeared. From this distance, it was hard to tell whether it absorbed into the box or burned off. She didn’t see any smoke, so she was disinclined to think it burned.

At any rate, it definitely had no effect on the flames. So she would conserve her source of water,until she knew better what it was needed for.

She’d been remiss in not examining the box more closely. It shamed her to admit it, but she felt nervous walking so close to the King as he sat on his throne. It was different from when he was standing beside her, talking easily.

She climbed the steps to the marble pedestal and did her best to ignore his eyes.

The blue flames flickered and danced, in constant motion, neither growing nor shrinking in size or scope. At the heart of the fire sat the little box, and its surface glittered with a variety of colors from the light reflecting off of it.

She reached out her hand to test the heat, but pulled her fingertips back immediately. It may not have burned like a regular fire, but it gave off just as much heat. Any closer and she was sure her flesh would burn off.

Normally, a fire would need oxygen to continue burning. She decided to smother it and see if it had any effect. Creating a shield of tightly woven streams of air, she surrounded the cube and the fire. Slowly, she contracted the shield until the space within was barely bigger than the box itself. The fire should have burned through whatever oxygen it had, or the size of the flames should have been affected by the change in air currents.

Nothing happened.

It was not susceptible to air or water.

She supposed she should try fire and earth, also.

The fire was easy to come by; it was simply igniting the oxygen already in the room. When introduced to the blue flames, her own fire simply died out.

Earth was much harder to procure. After several moments in thought, she finally decided that stone constituted earth. And there was quite a bit of it in the room.

She hesitated, however, uncertain about how Riddle would react to what she was about to do. He _had_ said that everything she needed was in the room. She hoped that meant he was willing to overlook her use of stone to conduct her experiments.

Squaring her shoulders, she pointed her wand at the statue of the woman in the middle of the fountain, and, with a slicing hex, she cut off her head.

Riddle remained motionless, though she could tell from the set to his mouth that he was not pleased at the damage she’d done to what was probably a priceless statue. Surely, he hadn’t wanted her to break up the marble flooring?

With a few more spells, she turned the woman’s head into a pile of fine gravel. Shaping it into a few thin layers, she levitated them towards the box, once again attempting to smother the flames.

She was unsurprised when nothing happened, but at least she had plenty of data to consider.

The flames were impervious to physical elements. They were clearly magical in nature, and would respond to something magical.

She returned to the now-headless woman in the fountain, and read the riddle again.

Moonlight was definitely the key.

Looking up, she saw the oculus was beginning to glow with the light of the moon as it rose higher. It was time to try to get it to ‘pierce the heart of fire.’

Concentrating, she cast a levitation spell on the box to move it farther under the oculus where the moonlight could shine on it. To her surprise, it wouldn’t budge. It was very small, and likely didn’t weigh very much, but she couldn’t get it to shift even an inch.

Curious, she attempted the levitation spell on the marble pedestal, which should have moved easily. It, too, resisted her magic.

Using a very strong wall of air, she pushed it against the box, with the same results. Just to be sure, and partially to see what Riddle’s reaction would be, she sent a tiny blasting spell at the pedestal. It didn’t rock at all in the blast, though the things around it, like Riddle’s throne, shook.

Riddle appeared supremely confident in the ability of the item to withstand her spells. It was clear the placement of the box was very intentional. She’d have to find a way to get the moonlight from the oculus to the box.

Walking back to the fountain, she knelt in front of it, reading the words to herself. The solution to the riddle was in the room. The answer involved the moonlight, but the box wouldn’t move into the moonlight.

For several moments, she sat in silence, contemplating her options. She looked up at the oculus above her, which was beginning to glow brighter as the moon rose higher. With a simple measuring spell she got the exact distance from the oculus to the box.

It would have to be reflection, she decided. But while it made sense, she couldn’t figure out how it was related to the part of the riddle that involved ‘Poseidon’s bounty.’

But after several more moments with no other ideas, she decided to at least test the moonlight first.

Now her problem was finding a reflective source.

Her eyes were drawn immediately to all the glass cases that were nearby. She eyed them, trying to gauge how much glass she’d need to divert a shaft of moonlight towards the pedestal that was entirely in shadow.

While Riddle didn’t tense up, Hermione would say that he was very interested in her interest in those cases.

Quickly, before he could react, she cast a Bombarda at the nearest glass case. It happened to be the one with all of the statuettes. She expected to hear the shattering of glass, maybe some magical feedback, and so she also cast a catch-all spell that would prevent the glass shards from exploding outwards.

It was all done with quite a bit of skill and grace, Hermione thought with pride. Unfortunately, nothing happened, except the energy from the blasting spell rebounding back into the room.

The force from the spell knocked her backwards, and when she looked up to see what had happened, the glass case remained completely untouched. Once again, Riddle was stone-faced, his confidence making it clear he didn’t expect her to succeed in her assault on his cases.

Awkwardly, Hermione climbed back to her feet, realizing belatedly that the white robes had slid quite a way up her thighs. Fortunately, her dignity remained intact and, as she stood, the robes slid back into place.

She dusted her hands off, and readjusted her grip on her wand. Gritting her teeth, she cast a much more powerful spell at the case, hoping to find the weakness that would cause the glass to crumble. This time she buffered the energy to prevent the rebound blast, so when the spell failed to work, it simply looked like she’d done nothing.

Glancing at Riddle, Hermione was irked to discover he was wearing that same faintly amused expression.

She narrowed her eyes at the case. She needed glass. She needed something to reflect the moonlight onto the box. In quick succession, she cast the same spell at all of the other cases, in case one of them was weaker than the others.

When the outcome remained the same, she could almost feel Riddle’s silent laughter at her back.

Turning to look him square in the eye, she raised her wand straight up at the only other glass in the room and cast her spell once more.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)


	9. Chapter 9

The sound of glass being shattered echoed throughout the room. Hermione saw a flash in King Riddle’s eyes that could have been anger or could have been excitement. Considering she’d just destroyed what was an extremely expensive piece of art, she thought it much more likely he was at least a little irritated with her.

Using a net spell, she caught the pieces of glass, and drew them down to the floor where she deposited them in a pile. The various colors that had been used to show the landscape of Ophidia created a rainbow of light on the floor.

Carefully, she arranged the pieces of glass into as flat a surface as she could. Then she used a heat spell to smooth it, making the reflective surface easier to control. With a word, she turned off her light balls, plunging the edges of the room back into darkness so she could more easily see the effect of her experiment.

Though quite heavy, she managed to levitate the glass into the air, directly into the path of the moonlight that was now streaming brightly through the center of the domed ceiling.

After making a few adjustments to make the surface more mirror like, she aimed the silvery light directly at the fire and the box within.

Though she didn’t expect it to be the final solution, she felt triumph streak hotly through her veins when she noticed the blue flames flicker and shiver under the assault of light. They moved and danced and shrank and squeezed into thin ribbons, as if trying to escape the brightness.

But still they continued to burn.

With a grunt of effort, Hermione let down the large piece of glass. Her breathing was hard and heavy, but she could feel the adrenaline kicking in. She was very close.

She had to figure out what to do with Poseidon’s bounty—with the large pool of water that sat conspicuously in the center of the room.

Forcing herself to breathe deeply and evenly after her exertions, she returned to contemplate the riddle.

Seven from one. What else divided into sevens?

Seven was an important number in Arithmancy and Numerology. It was the most powerful magical number. It represented a measure of completeness. It also represented the idea of hidden truths; the search for wisdom. All in all, a very appropriate number for a very tricky riddle.

Seven was the largest single-digit prime number.

There were seven letters of the musical alphabet.

There were seven players in a Quidditch Team.

Hermione was quickly extracting from her memory all the facts regarding the number seven, then discarding them almost as quickly.

She hurriedly did some Arithmancy calculations in her head that showed that King Riddle’s Destiny number was nine—irrelevant at the moment, so she set that information aside to consider later. Her own was a seven, but that couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the problem at hand.

Perhaps she needed to try a new tack.

What started out whole, and then split into seven?

Or what grew seven pieces out of a single one?

While Hermione was absorbed in thought, the moonlight continued to grow brighter. She noticed that even though it was quite bright, it still didn’t reach to the edges of the room that remained black.

She stared at the glass at her feet, at the swirls of color that had mixed when she heat-fused the glass together, and she was suddenly struck with the answer.

Her heart jumped in her chest as her head swiveled to look at the big pool of water, then the box, and finally the now-open oculus.

She tried to keep her excitement from overrunning her, but there was a ringing in her ears that told her she’d just solved the riddle. Now she just had to see if she had the magical ability to perform the task. Riddle had wanted magical strength, and it looked very much like this was going to test her limits.

She flexed her wand arm, an action that corresponded with her mentally testing her strength reserves. She was glad she hadn’t expended too much energy with her other experiments.

She ran through the list of all of the things she would need and had to make a few decisions.

What was the easiest shape to hold? The least amount of surface area? The most stable shape?

It would have to be a sphere, she decided. No matter the shape, it was going to be heavy. . . very heavy. And the reflection would be poor, more like diffusing—but hopefully that would be enough. If not, she’d have to use the big glass piece as well.

Using her measurement spell, she recorded the diameter of the opening of the oculus before she began.

She didn’t dare look back at Riddle, though she could tell he was watching her very keenly. This was very possibly her last chance, because she wasn’t sure she’d have the energy or strength left to try something else if this failed.

With a deep breath, she cast a very small wind spell above the pool of water. It went over the surface of the water, circling faster and faster, until it had gathered water into a funnel.

Slowly, the funnel grew as Hermione carefully fed it with every last drop of the water in the pool. By the time she was done, hundreds of gallons of water were hanging in the air. With care, she let go of the wind spell, holding all the water aloft with a levitation spell instead. She watched as the water continued to swirl, using more air spells on the outside to shape it into the sphere she wanted.

Using smooth motions, she lifted the water higher and higher. It sloshed within her air spells, and wobbled in her grasp, but she held it tight.

By the time she’d gotten it high enough, her raised wand arm was starting to feel fatigued. She was gripping the vinewood very tightly, trying to hold all the spells together, so she had to force herself to relax her grip. She’d need to hold it reasonably steady, and she wasn’t sure how long she’d need to keep it up.

As the water came close to the oculus, it was clear that she’d measured it perfectly, because the sphere of water was inserting perfectly into the now open oculus. It was like a water bubble on the mouth of a jug.

The room began to light up as the moonlight was diffused through the giant drop of water.

But rather than the cool blue glow of the moon that she’d been expecting, the room began to light up very faintly with several colors. As the moonlight was refracted through the water bubble prism, it was split into a rainbow.

Hermione spared a glance at the box sitting on its pedestal.

The blue flames around it were definitely reacting! The water continued to slosh in Hermione’s magical grasp, and as the water moved, the flames rose and fell.

For a few moments, Hermione simply kept the water as still as she could, since that made the light the brightest. But the colors lighting up the room only touched the box one at a time. She didn’t have the strength to keep everything aloft for too long, and if she set the water down now, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to grab it all again.

Extending both of her hands out, much like the headless woman in the now-empty water fountain, she set the water spinning again. Light began to shoot out like a giant disco ball. The mental image of a disco in the Throne Room, along with the exhilaration of her plan actually working, made Hermione laugh out loud.

She was the smartest witch, she was the strongest witch, she was going to win!

The flames were much smaller now, and Hermione was sure that if she simply held her spells that the rainbow moonlight would put the fire out. But she had that extra piece of glass, after all, so she might as well use it!

She lifted the glass right up to the water, using a little heat to bend it until it curved around the bubble, reflecting the rainbow lights in a higher concentration onto the box.

Tearing her eyes away from her handiwork, she looked over to see the blue flames shrinking rapidly. The crystal box glowed brighter and brighter with colorful light until a sudden brilliant, blinding flash spiraled outward.

With her concentration broken, she dropped all the spells that had carefully been holding up all that water and glass.

In the moment before it crashed down, she felt time slow. She saw the King on his feet, his wand aimed directly at her, light shooting out of the tip. She saw the light from her own newest spell—a shield charm—filtering down around her.

And she saw the pedestal, just beyond the King, still holding the crystal box—a box that was free of flames.

The sound of hundreds of gallons of water smashing into the stone water fountain mingled with the tinkling of shards of glass skittering across a marble floor.

When the debris settled, she found she was smiling so widely her cheeks were hurting. And there were _two_ shield charms around her.

“You tried to save me,” she said, her voice strong with the excitement of having overcome the challenge, and laced with wonder at the King’s protective actions.

The King slowly lowered his wand. The lights of his shield charms—the one around him as well as the one around her—winked out abruptly. “You didn’t need it.”

She was still grinning at him. Her charm had been underneath his, proof that it had gone up first. “No, I didn’t.” Wordlessly, she cancelled it and felt the water start soaking into the hem of her white robes.

For several moments, neither of them spoke. She was still breathing hard from her magical exertions, the adrenaline rush of pushing her limitations only just beginning to fade.

Riddle’s eyes were very dark in his serious face, staring at her, but she could gain no indication of his feelings from his expression. She wasn’t even sure if she should speak. But she had just decided she would break the silence, when he clapped his hands together once, very loudly.

“Aidos,” he called, causing the house-elf to appear immediately before him.

“Aidos answers the call of the King,” she said very formally, with a perfectly elegant curtsy.

Hermione noticed that where Steward Aidos had been very formally dressed before with a starched uniform, the dress she was now wearing was embroidered from neck to toe with intricate silver designs. The Mark of Ophidia was large across her back, and the crest of the House of Marvolo was above her breast.

“Steward,” the King addressed the little elf, “does the castle stand ready in all things?”

“Your Majesty has only to state his wish, and Aidos will see it fulfilled.”

“Aidos, Steward of Castle Marvolo, Miss Granger will require her things to be moved to the Queen’s Suite. See that it is done in all haste, as she will sleep there this night. Consider her wishes of utmost importance, and her orders as having the authority of the King.”

At his words, Aidos’ ears quivered in what Hermione thought might have been excitement. Before she could explain that she did not have any orders to give, Aidos had dropped into another curtsy, this time in front of Hermione.

“Ophidia rejoices this night! Castle Marvolo is honored! Aidos is overjoyed to be the first to wish good health and happiness to the future Queen!” The little elf’s voice squeaked with suppressed enthusiasm. Aidos was a very paragon of self-control.

Hermione tried to match her formality, thanking her for her words, but it was the first time she’d ever felt that she was not as eloquent as a house-elf.

When Aidos Apparated away, presumably to oversee the transfer of Hermione’s belongings, Hermione smiled at the King.

“I won,” she said, softly, thrilled to have been successful where so many others had failed.

Riddle inclined his head respectfully to her, but he still didn’t move from where he was standing. “Come claim your prize.”

She blinked at that, taking an involuntary step backward, her eyes opening wide. Was she supposed to marry him immediately? Surely, they weren’t supposed to consummate their marriage on a floor covered in water and broken glass?

His mouth twitched as he tried not to smile at the thoughts that must have been obvious on her face. He gestured to the box, which, now that she looked at it, had cracked open.

With red cheeks, she ascended the dais with her head held very stiffly up high. She may not know how to curtsy, but she could go up some stairs with at least a modicum of grace.

Approaching the marble pedestal, she paused, uncertain of what she would see inside the small box. She glanced back at the King who raised one eyebrow as if to question her hesitation.

The cover of the box easily opened further when she pushed the edges aside, but without the glow of the flames, and with the edges of the room once again in darkness, she couldn’t see what was inside. She muttered the spell to turn on the light balls she’d set out earlier, pleased when they responded instantly.

She reached in and pulled out. . . well, it was. . . it looked like. . . a snow globe?

The object in her hand was also made out of crystal, and it was shaped like a hollow flame. Water filled the inside, along with a palmful of tiny little rocks. Unable to help herself, she tipped it over and back, like one would with a snow globe. The rocks floated around the tiny little air bubbles, glittering, before settling back onto the bottom.  

She had no idea what to say. It was beautiful, but confusing.

The King watched her, but offered her no explanation for the meaning of the token.

When Aidos returned swiftly to Hermione’s side, Hermione decided to take a cue from the elf and she formally thanked the King for his competition, for the challenge of the riddle, and for the heavy object in her hand that was supposed to represent her ‘heart’s desire.’

As the Steward gaily escorted her to her new quarters, Hermione couldn’t help but look back to see that the King’s eyes, still watching her, were heavy with a meaning as mysterious as her prize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)


	10. Chapter 10

Surprisingly, Hermione slept soundly through the night. Having been up so late and expended so much energy, after the adrenaline rush ended, her tired body crashed on the incredibly soft, silk bed linen that covered her new bed.

She woke to bright morning sunlight streaming through the windows. For a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was, and her trial of the night before seemed like a fantastic dream. But then the memories all surged back to her. She fell back against her pillows amazed at everything that had transpired.

She’d done it! She’d solved a magical riddle that the smartest and strongest witches of an entire generation had failed to do. She was going to marry a king and become a queen. She was going to have the chance to help rule a country, affecting thousands of wizards and witches, and possibly influencing all of Wizardingkind.

She grinned to herself, excited at how all of her research and hard work had paid off.

Sleep having completely worn off, she became aware of voices beyond her door. One very low murmuring voice, and the other slowly rising louder.

“. . .happy to wait. Just. . . her that. . . waiting.”

The distressed sounds of a house-elf answering the woman made it clear that they were not going to be allowed in.

Hermione quickly got up, sure that it was her friends who had no doubt been anxiously waiting for news.

She pushed open the tall double doors that led from her bedroom into the luxurious sitting room with the matching décor. It was meant to entertain several intimate guests, so it was furnished with chairs, a low table, a settee, several lamps and ottomans—everything antique and well-preserved. Everywhere she looked she saw intricate engravings, inlaid designs, and ornate filigree.

She hadn’t had a chance to examine all the designs the night before, but the few runes that she could see mingled in the pattern looked like they were for protection and for enhancing power. She almost thought she could feel the hum of magic in the walls around her.

Thinking she’d take the time to explore later, she went around the corner to intercept the house-elf.

It was Pheme, the helpful little gossip who had been serving her in the Suitor’s Wing. She was struggling to push against the door to the outside corridor, trying to close it against the would-be visitors.

“Mistress is tired! Mistress is trying to sleep!” the little creature cried in a hoarse whisper. “Pheme will deliver a message later!”

“Pheme,” came Luna’s amused voice. “You remember us? We’re Hermione’s friends. She will want to see us right away when she wakes.”

“Then Mistress will summon you when she wakes!” Pheme said, still pushing on the door, which appeared to have a booted foot stuck in the bottom.

“It’s all right, Pheme,” Hermione said, quickly coming to the house-elf’s side. “I’m awake now.”

“Mistress!” Pheme said, dropping quickly into a curtsy. “These loud visitors have woken you!” Her troubled voice was just on the verge of a wail.

“No, no, it’s high past time I woke up. I’m glad I wasn’t allowed to sleep the day away. Are those my friends, come to visit me this morning?” She gestured to the door, which had been pushed open by a single gloved hand.

“Oh, yes, Mistress!” The house-elf hurried to open the door wider and wave in the now-welcome guests. After closing the door behind them, she rushed to stand before Hermione and said, “Presenting Miss Astoria Greengrasidi and Miss Luna Lovegood!” Then she bowed awkwardly, and stood nervously wringing her little hands.

Hermione felt a swell of affection for the little house-elf. It was clear that, like her, she was new at her job and was quite anxious about doing it properly. They would learn all the rules of propriety together, then. She thanked her profusely for her diligent care, and as Astoria had done once before with her own elf, sent her to the kitchen to get some galatopita for them.

With the frazzled Pheme out of the way, Hermione turned to her two guests and was immediately enveloped in an effusive embrace.

“You did it!” Astoria crowed, jumping up and down in her excitement. “I knew it was going to be you, I knew it!”

Luna held her tight, while Astoria’s movements jostled them both. “The whole castle is talking about it. I’m so proud of you, Hermione Granger.”

“It’s going to be Hermione Riddle now,” Astoria corrected, happily. “A royal wedding! It’s so exciting!”

Hermione finally extricated herself from her friends’ arms and asked, “Has the news already been spread, then?”

“Well,” Astoria answered, once again their expert on Ophidian custom, “the announcement hasn’t been made. It won’t be confirmed until you are officially presented to the court. But we woke up to the flags on the castle announcing a wedding, and anyone who was paying attention to the list of Suitors would know whose trial was last night.” She grinned mischievously. “I’m sure Lady Carrow was fit to be tied when she found out.”

Hermione permitted herself a very small smile at the thought, although her mind was already spinning thinking of how fast events were moving. The wedding was being planned already? She’d barely exchanged two sentences with her betrothed since winning the competition.

Seeing the contemplative look growing on Hermione’s face, Astoria waved her hands to distract her. “Wait, wait! First, you have to tell us everything! What happened? What was the test like? Was the moonlight the answer, after all?”

The women pulled her to the settee as Pheme arrived with their breakfast, and they listened with rapt attention as Hermione told them everything that had transpired during her trial.

Astoria was particularly awestruck at Hermione’s inventiveness and skill. “Even if I had known what was required,” she said, “there’s no way I would have been able to accomplish it. Perhaps if I’d had time to practice. . . but undertaking such a huge feat for the very first time?” She shook her head, amazed.

When Hermione described the treasure inside the box, both women frowned, trying to think of what it could signify.

Luna had just asked if they could see it, when there came another knock on the door.

With a squeak, Pheme, who had been listening just as attentively, hurried away to answer it.

The three women heard the corridor door open, and then there was a weighty silence.

A moment later, Pheme slowly came around the corner.  She was standing as stiffly as her starched uniform, but Hermione noticed with some alarm that the little elf’s ears were quivering rather violently.

“Mistress,” she said, with tremors in her squeaky voice, “may I present His Majesty Athanasius Riddle, King of Ophidia.”

For a moment, all three women froze in shock. Then, they scrambled to their feet as the King’s imposing figure came around the corner.

He didn’t look at all like he’d been up late. His handsome face was every bit as clear and vital as it had been when she’d faced him in his Throne Room.

His dress robes of the night before had been exchanged for the leathers she usually saw him wearing. This close, she could see that they were extremely well-sewn, undoubtedly with magic, and probably with considerable protection spells woven in. What looked like several small weapons were secured around his waist, disguised in the metalworking of his belts. She didn’t see where he kept his wand, but it was likely very close to hand.

As Astoria delivered another perfectly-formed curtsy, her skirts fanning out around her, Hermione was acutely aware of the fact that she was standing before the King in her flannel pyjamas and bare feet.

Surely queens had better clothing for receiving guests, especially royal ones, but Hermione had simply changed into her most comfortable nightclothes before falling into a heavy sleep, and she’d given no thought yet to changing.

She wasn’t sure who was more embarrassed, her or little Pheme, whose eyes were wide at the scene before her.

“Miss Astoria Greengrasidi, daughter of Ophidia,” the elf said, clearly addressing the King.

Astoria held her right hand out to the King, who took it in his and pressed a light kiss to the satin back of her glove. “A pleasure to see you again, Miss Greengrasidi,” he said, formally.

Hermione thought she saw Astoria’s arm tremble before she lowered it and gave another small curtsy.

Then the King turned to Luna, who stood beside Astoria.

“Miss Luna Lovegood, of Brittania,” Pheme intoned, frowning slightly when Luna stuck her hand out for a handshake.

Without skipping a beat, the King took her hand in his and pumped it gravely twice. “I am honored to meet you again, Miss Lovegood.”

“I am pleased to meet you again, also, King Riddle,” Luna said. “I’m not certain I was pleased the first time we met, as I can’t remember it, but I’d like to think so.”

The King seemed to consider her words for a moment and then he said, “I cannot speak for you, but I can assure you it was a pleasure on my part to have you honor this competition with your entry.”

Luna seemed quite satisfied with this response, and as one they all turned to look at Hermione.

Pheme gave a little embarrassed cough. “Her…Her Future Majesty, Miss Hermione Granger, of Brittania, soon to be Queen of Ophidia.”

Hermione stood tall in her practical flannels, refusing to allow herself to show any discomposure. She hadn’t expected to be receiving a king in her private suite, after all.

Although, after this, and especially after they got married, she’d be sure to consider that every moment of her life could involve the need for royal introductions. She’d be sure to be better prepared next time.

Unsure if she should hold out her hand, she settled instead for the same short bow she’d given him the night before. “Your Majesty,” she said.

“Miss Granger,” he acknowledged her, with his own small bow. His expression held that sense of amusement that she seemed to see him with the most, and he said, “I know that you, at least, remember our previous meeting; hopefully with the same pleasure that I do.”

“I—I—” Was he flirting with her? She couldn’t be sure, and thought it best if she didn’t try. She fell back on the same advice from the night before. “I would like to thank you for your generosity and kindness. I am well aware of the honor you do me by recognizing my claim to winning the competition.” She swallowed a little bit of her pride and added, “And I do apologize that I am not well-prepared to receive such an important guest this morning.”

His eyes were on her face, and though they had not once strayed to look at her clothing, she knew he must be aware of how incongruent it was for the future Queen of Ophidia to be greeting guests in her plain nightclothes.

He dismissed her apology with the slightest shake of his head. “It is I who should apologize. I had assumed you would sleep in late this morning and had not thought to find you with other guests. It was not my intention to meet you formally, or I would have given you proper notice, but I had wanted to extend an invitation and thought it would be best if I delivered it personally.”

“No apologies necessary, Your Majesty,” Hermione said, firmly, “for moving about at will in your own home.”

He smiled at her words. “Then no apologies from you, either, for doing the same.”

The implications made her feel suddenly warm, and she felt rather than heard Astoria’s tiny squeak of excitement. The woman was nearly as excitable as the house-elf, whose ears were still quivering at the thrilling scene before her.

Hermione swallowed. “An invitation, you said?”

He glanced at the other two women and then back at Hermione. “I wished to see if you would like to have lunch with me this afternoon. With such a late start to the day, I thought it would be prudent to see that we both have a nourishing meal.”

His wording subtly indicated that the invitation was for Hermione alone. The prospect of lunching alone with the King was both incredibly exciting and extremely nerve-racking.

“Of course, I would be honored, Your Majesty.”

He nodded. “The honor will be mine.” He stepped backwards, taking his leave. “Pheme will show you the way at the appropriate time, Miss Granger. Until then.”

As the house-elf escorted him from the room, the three women stood stock-still waiting to hear the door close. Even then, they didn’t move until Pheme reappeared.

Simultaneously, they all let out a whoosh of breath, and with the nervous laughter of tightly strung nerves they collapsed back onto the settee.

But it was only a moment before Astoria was tugging them back onto their feet and in the direction of the bedroom. “Oh, Hermione, lunch with the King! We have to find you something to wear!”

“But my galatopita!” she protested, suddenly aware of how very hungry she was. All the excitement was taking a toll on her stomach. She was glad, for several reasons, that lunch was not very far off.

“Mistress, do not worry, Pheme will bring your galatopita and help you find your robes for lunch!”

“Well, thank Merlin for you, Pheme!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)


	11. Chapter 11

Hermione’s new wardrobe had proven to be more than adequate for a private luncheon with the King. Pheme had revealed to the wide-eyed friends an exceptionally large closet already fully stocked with dress robes in all colors and styles. As they’d pulled out the magnificent garments, they’d quickly seen that everyone single one of them was in Hermione’s size.

Either Steward Aidos was particularly efficient in preparing for every possible contingency, or the wardrobe had magically adjusted to provide for the newest inhabitant of the rooms. Hermione thought Pheme was using house-elf magic to ensure the dress robes had the very best fit.

Astoria had wanted to dress her up in something very expensive and fancy. Luna had suggested something colorful and impractical. Hermione, however, had decided on something elegant and simple.

It suited her style, but she also thought that a king who wore leathers the majority of the time would not be overly impressed by silks and satins and gold embroidery.

Dressed in a pleasant set of periwinkle robes, she followed Pheme down the large corridors, gradually twisting and winding until she found herself on a terrace half in sunshine and half in the shadow of the castle walls.

There was a table already laid with several covered plates of food, and the King stood at a balcony railing, looking out over the gardens.

She admired his profile—the sharp angles of his strong jaw, his confident posture in his dark, practical clothing. He was much less intimidating standing alone in the sunlight than he’d been sitting on a throne in the darkness.

As she approached, the King turned to greet her. Much to Hermione’s amusement, Pheme insisted on announcing her properly.

King Riddle smiled kindly as he told Pheme that she could leave Miss Granger in his care for a little while. Reluctantly, Pheme did as she was bid, though she undoubtedly remained nearby.

When they were alone, Hermione exclaimed, “This all looks so lovely!” The table was covered in a delicate antique lace tablecloth and short vases of fresh flowers added bright spots of fragrant color.

“Cook was kind enough to provide the dishes that she had observed you were especially fond of,” he told her as he held her chair out for her. “I asked her for food that was particularly hearty, as I imagine you must need to replenish your strength after the taxing events of last night.”

With a rueful smile, Hermione admitted that she was famished, even after her lovely milk pie breakfast. “I had not realized how much energy I must have expended solving your extremely difficult riddle.”

As he seated himself, Hermione noticed how his eyes seemed to glint with curiosity.

“I had begun to despair that anyone could solve it,” he began, his words slow as if he were choosing his words carefully. “Though there were a few who seemed to come close, more often than not they simply destroyed the chamber and required rescuing before destroying themselves as well.”

Hermione’s eyes opened wide, remembering the state she’d left the Throne Room in. Quickly, she apologized for the wreckage she’d left behind. “I should have stayed to set it right. I do hope there was no lasting damage.” She cringed, remembering the broken stained glass and the headless stone woman.

Riddle tapped his fingers on the table for several moments before answering. “Even if there was, it would have only been my own fault. The nature of the riddle was such that solving it was bound to make a mess.” Looking up at her, he added, “I do feel it was entirely worth the risk, however, as it yielded results beyond even my expectations.”

Hermione colored at his words, quickly looking down at her plate.

“Did you write the riddle entirely yourself?” she asked him. It was something she had been wondering ever since the competition began, and the question only became more prominent in her mind when she’d seen firsthand how difficult it truly was.

He nodded. “It was necessary if I expected it to remain a secret.”

“Can you—” she started to say, before she realized her question was possibly inappropriate.

At his raised eyebrow encouraging her to finish, she hesitated, but finally asked, “Can you. . . perform the tasks to solve the riddle?”

The King’s lips twitched with the slightest of smiles. “Yes,” he said.

She waited for him to elaborate, perhaps provide insight into the reason for the riddle, or even an alternative solution.

Instead, he just commented, “I do not ask of others what I am not prepared to do myself.”

“A good rule of thumb for a king,” Hermione observed. “I have read through many of the policies you have enacted, and I have to say that I’ve seen considerable evidence of that same perspective.” She felt her cheeks flush a little bit at the way he looked at her, as if he found her words incredibly interesting. She found herself saying more than she intended.

“I admit that I was very excited to have the chance to meet you. I have longed to visit Ophidia. As the only Wizarding country in existence, I find it absolutely fascinating! But the more research I did, the more I admired your administration in particular. I think your country’s attitudes toward social progress and technology would only serve to benefit any other countries that are forward-thinking enough to adopt them. I do wish it were not so difficult to inspire change in Brittania. The bureaucracy of the Ministry is a source of frustration for me.”

“Are you not a part of that same bureaucracy?” he asked her.

She shouldn’t have been surprised that he knew what she did for a living. He most likely had an entire file of information on her, everything she could possibly have on record.

“Yes, but I had nearly decided that working within the Ministry was a waste of time and energy, when I received the notification of the competition here in Ophidia.” She shrugged as if to indicate that the rest was history, and she took a drink of her tea. It was fabulous, perfectly brewed, which was highly unusual to find outside of Brittania. Cook apparently knew exactly how she took her tea, as well as her favorite Ophidian foods.

“This must be very different for you,” the King said. “To be here in Ophidia.”

“Yes, but it’s so lovely,” she answered him, enthusiastically. “It’s such an amazing feeling to know that everyone I meet is a witch or a wizard, and that everywhere I go, everything I see was meant for Wizardingkind. How wonderful to grow up in a world where you never have to fear being harmed for your heritage!”

King Riddle’s expression was serious as he asked her, “You have read of my father’s experience?”

She nodded, not mentioning the conversation she’d had with the portrait. She supposed the King had already heard of it, but she thought it might be awkward to discuss having met his parents while she was on what might loosely be considered their first date. Thinking of their lunch as a date made her suddenly feel very warm, and she tried to focus back on the conversation. “I have been more fortunate, I suppose, that my family was extremely supportive upon learning that I was a witch.”

“Tell me of your family,” he said. “It must have come as quite a shock to them.”

“Oh, it was, but I think my parents had always believed, as many parents do, that I was incredibly unique.” She laughed indulgently. “It just served to validate their feelings to know that I had power beyond normal comprehension. They had always pushed me to succeed, and being a witch simply meant they had to revise what their picture of success looked like.”

He tilted his head, examining her. “You speak of them with much affection.” He almost seemed surprised. But Hermione supposed that if his only stories of Muggles were about his father’s family, then it was no wonder he was skeptical.

“I love my parents very much,” she told him, honestly. “They have provided me the very best examples of hard work, integrity, and strength. I’m so grateful to them for their unwavering support and their belief in me. They truly helped to shape me into the witch that I am today, despite not having any magic themselves.”

It was clear he found this difficult to believe, but he conceded, “Remarkable children often owe at least a measure of gratitude to remarkable parents.”

He’d done it again. He’d given her a very subtle compliment, as if he knew that it made her uncomfortable to be praised directly.

“I’m curious about how they reacted when you told them about your trip to Ophidia. I imagine that a king choosing a bride by a magical riddle would have seemed highly unusual to them.”

Like a fairytale, actually, had been Hermione’s own first thought upon reading the parchment announcement. She admitted, “I’m afraid that though I told them I was taking a trip to Ophidia, I have yet to tell them about the competition. Though they are incredibly supportive, Wizarding things are sometimes very hard to explain to them, and I didn’t know how best to describe the situation. I figured if I failed, it would be easy to gloss over the details. And if I succeeded, well, there was plenty of time afterwards to explain how their only daughter is going to marry a foreign monarch.”

“Ah, I see,” he said, without censure. “And have you contacted them, yet?”

She shook her head. “I wanted to find out the details of the wedding, first, so my letter can be more thorough. Or perhaps even return to deliver the news myself.”

The King’s face was carefully blank as he said, “It is Ophidian custom to marry at the next full moon. Which, I’m sure you know, is in less than three weeks’ time. There is much to do, and a journey back to Brittania would perhaps be difficult to fit in at this time.” His tone was diplomatic, but Hermione doubted there was any room for negotiation.

Someone had neglected to keep her informed on Ophidian marriage customs. She’d thought she would have far more time. Three weeks was hardly any time at all to plan a wedding, let alone to get to know the bridegroom and set the foundation for a marriage. And that wasn’t even taking into account learning all the things she would need to know in order to participate in Ophidian politics. No, she wasn’t going to be able to return home before the wedding.

“Oh,” she said, furrowing her brow in thought. “Perhaps I could task my closest friends in Brittania with preparing them for the journey to come to the wedding.” Harry and Ron would be bollocks at that sort of thing, but Molly would probably be very efficient in rounding everyone up and keeping them organized.

Hermione looked up from her plate to realize that Riddle was staring at her in silence. She felt a hint of misgiving at his expression.

Deliberately, he wiped his mouth with his napkin, and set it down. “As you know,” he said, his tone very delicate, “there are no Muggles in Ophidia, Miss Granger.”

“Of course,” she said, frowning. “I just thought that surely there must be a way they could come to visit—even if only for the wedding itself.”

Her statement was met with silence.

Slowly, Riddle pushed back his chair, standing up. When he stood beside her, his gestures were clear that he expected her to stand as well, so she did.

With graceful movements, he tucked her arm into his and he walked her back to the balcony railing. The sky was a deep, cloudless blue, and the afternoon sunlight was bright on the white stone walls of the gardens. Away in the distance, she could see the towering shape of Vertic Alley.

When he spoke again, he waved his hands out over the land. “You are aware, Miss Granger, of how Muggles cannot see many magical things. Houses can materialize and disappear in front of them, or they can be jostled by a Dementor, and never notice anything out of place. It is because they have no magic. And magic is woven into the very fabric of this country. For hundreds of years, we have infused every corner of it with our magic—the air we breathe, the water we drink, the earth beneath our feet. A Muggle in this country would be unable to interact with either the citizens or their environment in even the most basic of ways.”

“I see,” Hermione said, slowly, and she thought that she did. “Are you saying that my parents are not welcome in Ophidia?”

“I am saying that Ophidia’s borders have been closed to Muggles for hundreds of years. And that I intend them to remain so. For their own protection as well as for ours. It is one of the foundations this country was built upon.”

She didn’t know why those words upset her so much. It wasn’t as if he were telling her anything new. It was what she admired about the country, in fact, that it could be so unapologetically magical. She should have expected as much. Of course, her parents would not be able to come to her wedding.

Maybe she and the King would be able to visit Brittania afterwards, including them in a small, private celebration. Her parents would be devastated to miss out on the wedding, but she hoped that they would understand the complicated circumstances.

Still, their frank discussion did bring to mind another concern.

“I’m not ashamed of my Muggle-born heritage,” she said, quietly. “I’m very proud of it, actually. I had hoped to teach my children, one day, to be proud of both their Wizarding _and_ Muggle heritages.” To her credit, she didn’t even blush at the mention of future children, considering that any children she had would be fathered by the man in front of her. “But tell me, will it be very difficult to get the people of Ophidia to accept a Muggle-born Queen?”

When he didn’t answer her right away, she added, “I’m not afraid of a fight. I’m not going to shy away from difficult circumstances. I just—I would like to know in advance if I need to make mental, magical  and physical preparations to protect myself.”

“An admiral quality,” he said, folding his hand almost affectionately over hers where it held his arm. “Like any country, the Ophidian people vary in their opinion on any given topic. Many Ophidians have never met a Muggle; they know only the stories that are often exaggerated in nature, or incomplete in relevant details. Muggle-borns are rare, as they are all foreigners. They rarely choose to become Ophidian citizens unless, like my father, they are seeking shelter from persecution.”

He paused, before looking directly at her. “Some Ophidians will be excited at the change. Others will be curious, but ultimately unconcerned about your heritage. As my father was a Muggle-born, he had already set a precedent. But still others will be. . . decidedly unwelcoming, perhaps even hostile. But no one would dare to cross the King, and as of last night, you outrank every other citizen of this country. A threat to you is a threat to me. I do not expect that you will have anything to fear from any of my subjects.”

She was no stranger to prejudice. His words, though not meant to be reassuring, did comfort her with their honest assessment.  

After a moment, he said, “Give me your wand.”

She placed her wand into his outstretched hand with only the slightest trepidation.

He muttered as he cast a spell over it, and her wand glowed briefly. He returned it to her, and answered her unspoken question. “I removed the Peace-Bonding. Normally, it would remain until the fulfillment of your citizenship ritual. But if it assures you of your ability to adequately defend yourself in any and all circumstances, I see no reason you should not have the full scope of your magic at your disposal, free of any limitations.”

She thanked him, uncertain if it was a token of trust, or an indication that she may need to defend herself with violent spells in the near future.

The corners of his lips quirked up into a smile that made his dark eyes seem a degree warmer than they’d been just a few moments ago. “I also changed your library account.” With an exaggerated courtly bow, he said, “For you, Miss Granger, unrestrained access to the library at Castle Marvolo.”

The look of shocked reverence that she gave her wand with its increased significance, made him laugh out loud. She thought her husband-to-be was particularly nice looking when he laughed. Despite the seriousness of their discussion, she couldn’t help smiling at the man who had quite casually made one of her long-held dreams come true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)


	12. Chapter 12

It turned out that there wasn’t nearly as much work required to plan a royal wedding as one might think. Steward Aidos had been preparing for the happy event for months. The food, the invitations, the flowers, the colors—nearly everything had been ordered, chosen, made, or arranged well in advance, and set into motion at the drop of a hat. Or rather, at the raising of a flag.

The Mark of Ophidia was proudly displayed above the castle ramparts, silver on a white field. Normally, the serpent coiled around the skull seemed very ominous. The green mark that was usually flying on a dark black background always made it seem like a pirate flag to Hermione. But this version of the flag had just the silver serpent, its scales seeming to glitter as the banner waved in the sunlight.

Around the city, Hermione could see more and more flags go up as the message was received. The sea of white flags across the building tops was proof that Lagus was readying itself for a grand affair.

Hermione didn’t mind at all not being part of the extensive preparations. It freed up her time to do much more important things.

Her first order of business, of course, had been to test her new library access. Taking her friends along with her, they’d wandered the stacks looking for rooms and corridors that she could get them into. Hermione found plenty of books of interest, and she made note of them for another day when she wasn’t trying to learn how to run a country in as short a time as possible.

While Astoria grew quickly bored of Hermione’s penchant to research everything, Luna was content to trail Hermione, almost always remaining in close proximity. When Hermione suggested to her that she might be happier pursuing her own interests, Luna just shrugged and said that something told her that Hermione needed her close.

She certainly came in handy whenever the two would run across Lady Carrow. Luna liked to wave at Lady Carrow from afar, as if inviting her to join them. Hermione usually stared at her very pointedly as if daring her to come closer. Lady Carrow always walked another direction.

Hermione heard it from Pheme, who was still a wonderful source of information, that Lady Carrow had been warned to keep a strict distance from King Riddle’s betrothed. The warning must surely have been dire to prevent the disagreeable woman from even so much as speaking an unkind word to her.

She couldn’t complain. She had much more important things to concern her than Lady Carrow.

Like the man she was going to marry in less than three weeks.

He was intelligent, witty, unfailingly elegant and dignified. He always spoke deliberately, his words couched in a way that made her question if she really understood his meaning. Though he was patient and kind—and always polite—whenever he spoke to her, she often felt like she stood in the eye of a storm. The power of him seemed to vibrate in the air, a deep roaring that reverberated in her belly. The touch of his hand produced electric shock waves. Her senses were always on high alert when he was nearby.

He fascinated her. He was young by monarchical standards, barely in his thirties. Yet, when she stood in his presence, she was sometimes overcome by the distinct feeling that he was going to be a prominent figure in history. That it was not simply Ophidia that was on a cusp, as Luna had once said, but all of Wizardingkind.

It excited her to be a part of whatever was going to happen. It excited her to be part of it with _him_.

She had that thought for the third time that day as they walked through the castle. They’d once again lunched together, and unlike the last time when she’d returned to her rooms and her friends, he’d invited her to walk with him.

They meandered through rooms that saw little use, commenting on the antique furniture, the priceless art, the ancient tapestries. Ophidian history delighted her. It wasn’t merely the history of a country. In a way, it was a chronicle of the development of magic and the modern practice of it. She listened as he taught her things that she’d never heard in books.

When they came into a room of exquisite crystal artifacts, the rainbow of colors on the walls reminded her of the Throne Room and the crystal box that had opened to the refracted moonlight.

“Seven from one,” she quoted, her hand setting a dangling multi-faceted teardrop spinning. The vibrant lights that danced on the opposite wall as a result, made her smile. “I almost didn’t get that clue. It is meant to be the number of colors that light is split into, isn’t it?”

As he often did, Riddle merely watched her, waiting for her to continue speaking.

She smiled at him, eager to share a piece of knowledge. “Did you know that the Muggles have determined that there are only six colors, though?”

A smile tugged at his mouth as if he didn’t believe her.

“Oh, yes,” she asserted, not even trying to keep the swotty, lecturing tone from her voice. “They’ve done research into the wavelengths of the color indigo, and determined that there isn’t any real argument for indigo to be distinguished from the blue and violet on either side of it. Our eyes really can’t tell the difference. So most modern color scientists include only six main colors in the rainbow.”

That small smile of his remained as he looked at her. She almost thought it seemed…affectionate, which was a step better than amused.

He moved to stand closer to her. He seemed to like the way her breath clogged up in her throat whenever he got very near. With his wand, he lowered the chandelier in the middle of the room, and raised the drapes until the sun was shining squarely onto the light fixture.

The large prisms cast elongated streams of light onto the wall, causing the colors to stand out quite starkly.

“How many do you see?” Riddle asked her, leaning down so she felt his breath against the side of her cheek. His eyes were on her face rather than on the wall.

Feeling the beginnings of a shiver under his gaze, she moved away from him and closer to the edge of the room, careful not to block the path of the light. With her fingers, she marked out each of the different hues.

“Six,” she said, confidently.

He seemed disappointed in her answer and didn’t respond.

She turned back to the wall, her fingers ghosting over the lines, before he spoke again.

“You would lie to me, Hermione?”

He’d never spoken her given name before. It caused heat to shrill through her, from the back of her neck straight down to her spine.

Her cheeks bloomed with color as her mind registered his words and the slightly sharper tone that he’d never used with her. “I beg your pardon?”

In just a few strides he was by her side again, standing much too close, forcing her to look up at him. With the sun shining through the window behind him, he was mostly in shadow. But she could still make out the expression on his face. It was fierce. Like she had offended him.

“How many colors do you see?” he asked again.

She didn’t have to count again. “Seven,” she admitted in a whisper, her eyes wide on his.  

For a moment he just stood there, large and immovable, like an iceberg in rough waters, and she a hapless vessel with no choice but to crash into it.

But then he backed away and she inhaled noisily, her heart beating so hard she found it difficult to breathe.

“I’ve heard that you are a natural Legilimens,” she said, her voice reproachful. “Did you just read my mind?” How else could he have known that she’d thought she’d clearly seen the delineation of all seven colors? She wasn’t trying to lie to him, she’d assumed it was the same optical illusion that had fooled Muggles for so long.

He waved his wand. The drapes dropped back to their normal position, and the chandelier returned to its place. He stood for a minute with his back to her.

When he turned around, the patient look on his face was back, replacing that brief touch of irritation she’d seen earlier.

“Hermione,” he said, sighing, and her name had the same effect on her spine as it had had the first time. “I have never touched your mind without your consent. What thoughts or feelings you share with me, it will be by your choice or not at all.”

His answer embarrassed her, and made her feel more than a little self-conscious. She’d just accused him of acting in an unethical manner.

“I’m sorry,” she said, the difficult words coming out more easily than she expected them to. “I—I should have known better. Of course, you wouldn’t.”

Her words seemed to appease him, and she drew closer to him so he could see her sincerity.

He took her hand in his, and pressed a quick kiss to the back of it, the motion somehow both very formal and very intimate.

She cleared her throat. “How did you know? That I was…less than precise.” He questioned her word choice with just a look, but she didn’t correct them any further. She hadn’t lied.

“There are seven colors in the rainbow,” he said. Then he emphasized, “Seven colors in the _magical_ rainbow. Each color has its own magical properties that can be tested and quantified. Like so many other magical elements, indigo cannot be seen properly by Muggles. So they insist on changing, and declaring as untrue, what has been a proven fact for so many centuries. You and I can distinguish between the colors because we are not Muggles.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. She’d never considered that. Her head swiveled to look at the wall again, bringing her face up close to the small rainbow spots of color. Were there really seven true colors? Was it as simple as identifying yet another magical thing that Muggles were unable to see?

“You seem surprised,” he observed. “Even after everything you’ve seen proving how wizards are fundamentally different from Muggles, this comes as a shock to you?”

“I’m just thinking about how different the world must look if you can’t see all the colors that others can. Or hear all of the sounds. Or be missing something else vital. And to not even know what you are missing…that seems unbearably sad.” Hermione thought of how hard it was to explain to her parents what it was like to be a witch. She couldn’t imagine trying to explain a color.

The King shrugged. “Muggles aren’t missing anything _because_ they don’t know it’s missing. They are content to go about their lives without knowing what magic feels like in their fingertips, without listening to the magic of the land they live on, without knowing there’s another way to live. They don’t have to fear animals they can’t see or plants that will kill them. They don’t have to feel jealous or resentful about things they can never have, skills they can never develop, tools they can never use. And it’s easier for them if they remain in ignorance.”

“You don’t think Muggles have the ability to live in harmony with Wizardingkind?” Hermione asked. Riddle’s words seemed to rub her the wrong way, like Muggles were something other than human.

It was his turn to look surprised. “Of course, I do. We’ve seen the evidence of what happens when isolated Muggles learn about wizards. They fear us, they hate us, they turn their greater numbers to harmful activities. But that has more to do with the circumstances and the context of Muggles learning about magic. If done properly, I do believe there is a way that we can all live together. Finding this way, and implementing a plan to make it successful, is an accomplishment I fully intend to achieve in my lifetime.”

Hermione felt two things at the same time. The first thing was a warmth at hearing his progressive speech. She wanted nothing more than to be free to be a witch _and_ her parents’ daughter. She hated living a double life. Considering the amazing things that Riddle had accomplished with his own country, she thought it entirely possible that he could find a way to bring about the changes that he sought. She thought it truly profound that the king of a country that refused entry to any Muggles, believed there was a way for everyone to coexist in harmony together.

The second thing she felt was a skittering of fear. There was a sour note to the ring of his words, that she couldn’t put her finger on. Perhaps Luna’s misgivings were rubbing off on her.

Riddle tilted his head to the side and he asked her, quietly, “Would you help me? If I could show you how Ophidia could be an example to the world, would you apply your brilliant mind and your prodigious magical talent to helping me to make it possible?”

With his eyes on her, she couldn’t help but nod, the words stuck in her throat. She desperately wanted to be part of such a noble goal. The fact that he was asking her made her well up with pride. She knew now why he needed the strongest and the smartest witch. He needed a bride who was going to be able to help him with changing the world.

She grinned up at him, the possibilities that were suddenly swirling through her mind caused that brief feeling of dread to dissipate before she could examine it too closely. What new and brilliant things could the two of them achieve together? This was the big _something_ she’d wanted to do with her life.

He rewarded her answer with an approving smile, and that warm feeling spread all the way down to her toes. His smile did curious things to the butterflies that she still had in her belly whenever he was close by, and instead of trying to repress them, this time she let them flutter.

“I think it’s time we got you back to your rooms,” he finally said, reluctantly. “I did promise Pheme I’d be sure to give her plenty of time to dress you for the ball.”

Hermione scrunched up her nose in distaste at the idea of having to prepare for a formal event.

Riddle laughed at her expression, but he saw the concern that she tried to hide. It was the ball that would announce their marriage and present her to the court at Ophidia.

“I will be there,” he reminded her softly, offering his arm to her to escort her back.

She placed her arm in his, gladly taking it, along with his reassurance that she would not be facing the court alone. Perhaps it was unwise to be so fond of a man she’d only just met, but Hermione had to admit she was beginning to feel decidedly attached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)


	13. Chapter 13

Hermione felt a bit self-conscious walking into the antechamber to the ballroom. The heavy brocade dress she wore was finer than anything she’d ever owned, and she had a terrifying abundance of jewels dripping from her hair and from her limbs. She was particularly mindful of her posture, as Astoria had told her ‘the slouching of a peasant’ would be unbecoming to her new station in life. So, she tried to glide across the thick carpets with her head high and her shoulders back, thankful for the Sure-Foot Charm she’d placed on her satin and silk shoes before she’d left her rooms.

She’d carefully prepared herself—physically, emotionally, mentally—for this all-important initial presentation to Ophidian society. She knew that first impressions were key in winning support for her claim to the throne, that many would judge her ability to serve as Ophidia’s Queen based on what they saw this night. Astoria had given her plenty of advice on how to navigate social events, but the most important piece of advice she gave was for Hermione to remember that she had won her new position fairly and no one else had the right to deny her.

It was this thought that ran through her mind as she’d allowed her house-elf the freedom to choose her attire. Any thought that Pheme might have misled her as to the appropriate dress for the occasion, disappeared the instant she noticed the young nobles standing in the corridor.

To a man, they were each wearing the finest dress robes of varying shades of black, grey, and green. The fabrics were clearly of the most superb craftsmanship, and they were fitted impeccably to their incredibly trim bodies. As the men laughed at a joke, the movements set their clothes to twinkling in the light, as if hundreds of tiny diamonds had been sewn all over them.

That wasn’t what caught her attention, however. What caught her attention was that, surely, she must be staring at a group of the most pulse-elevating, stunningly gorgeous men she had ever seen in her life.

Each one was the epitome of grace, power, and confidence. Their fine robes did nothing to detract from the aura of strength and magic that surrounded them. One of them, with the most striking platinum hair, was indolently leaning against a marble column—a position that should have made him seem petulant or bored, and only served to make him seem dangerous, like a predator lying in wait for prey.

Clearly there was a difference between slouching like a peasant, and slouching like royalty.

A tall man with shiny, brown ringlets that looked as if they didn’t dare to ever appear out of place, happened to look her direction where she’d stopped in the shadows. Though not a word seemed to pass from his mouth, the men abruptly stopped talking to glance at her.

Some of them were openly appreciative, like the dark man on whom a smile very quickly blossomed. Some were contemplative, like the man with the curly hair. Others were confused, like the two larger men who stood on the outskirts of the group and looked as if confusion was a state they were quite familiar with.

The man with the blond hair had hard eyes, sharp as steel, that seemed to bore right into her, questioning her presence.

Deciding to take the bull by the horns, she stepped towards them at a slow walk, carefully keeping her face from feeling the intimidation of meeting men who so clearly outranked her. Or had. They would soon be her subjects, she reminded herself.

“Gentlemen,” she greeted them calmly, aware that there were always political undercurrents among the elite of any kingdom. She held one gloved arm out as she had seen the other women do when greeting men.

When no one moved to take it, she experienced a brief moment of alarm that she had misunderstood the custom.

As her hand hung there, unmoving, she arched one eyebrow, as if questioning their lack of response.

The dark man with the smile finally came to her side, his every movement elegant as he took her outstretched hand and brought it to his lips, his curious eyes on her face. When he lifted his head, he didn’t release her hand, but held it loosely in his.

“My lady, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of being introduced.” His voice was smooth, like an intoxicating rich wine that fools you into drinking too much. “I am Ser Zabini, though you are  welcome to call me Blaise.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Ser Zabini,” she acknowledged, with only the slightest emphasis on his title.

She hesitated upon reciprocating with her name, realizing that she had not been informed as to what her new title was. She was not Queen, yet. Queen-Designate? Queen-in-Waiting? Her Highness? She knew it would be an extremely poor idea to give this man—this man with the pretty smile and the clever voice who was still holding her hand—her first name.

“I am Lady Granger,” she quickly decided, aware that every moment she spent deliberating was one in which she could lose whatever impact her statement might have. The gossip in the court had no doubt preceded her, as the significance of the white flags was only too clear.

“Ah, yes.” Ser Zabini’s eyes lit up, while the men behind him shifted uneasily in the manner of those who have just had the subject of their conversation appear unexpectedly.

Her hand was abruptly shifted into the care of another, as the man with the curls framing his face relieved Zabini of his burden, kissing the air just above her fingers.

“A pleasure to meet you, Lady Granger,” he said, and then introduced himself as Ser Nott. When his eyes came up to meet hers, she saw they were dark, but sparkled with a hint of mischief.

“Theo,” he clarified, causing her to wonder if it was very common for men to give out their first names. In a lower tone, he added, “And all yours, of course, my lady,” with an incline of his head that made her think she shouldn’t acknowledge that comment.

Another moment he held her hand, before releasing it, and she let it fall to her side. There was no sense in forcing the others to greet her; it was clear they were undecided as to how they should act. The fact that no one was looking at the blond man, who had still not straightened his posture, seemed to indicate that they were waiting on a signal from him.

“And you, sir?” she asked him, her eyes direct on his. She did not hold out her hand.

Though he made no outward sign, she got the impression that she had surprised him with her forwardness.

He waited a moment, his delay clearly intentional, before saying, as if to a small child, “Malfoy.”

Ah, the scion of the oldest and most noble house of Malfoy. He must be offended she did not instantly recognize him. She did not respond to his insolent manner other than with a slight incline of her head.

There was a silence afterwards, as everyone waited for the outcome of what was clearly going to be a power struggle.

Hermione didn’t speak. She had long ago learned that the person who speaks first, loses. She would be Queen, and she _would_ be respected. She had the luxury of waiting indefinitely for someone else to break the silence.

Ser Malfoy finally stood, and took a slow step towards her. “So, you’re the _Muggle-born_ that solved Riddle’s riddle.” The way he said ‘Muggle-born’ held a lifetime of disgust and disdain in it.

But the statement was an obvious one. If he was probing for a weakness, she would not give him one. She merely continued looking at him.

“Is it true,” he asked, in a way that made her think of a serpent whispering in Eve’s ear, “that you are the strongest and the smartest witch in all the land?”

It seemed a presumptuous thing for her to say. And yet, that was what everyone would be saying, and if she pretended to a false modesty now, she had the feeling it would paint her as weak in the eyes of these influential men.

“In this land, and the next,” she asserted. Then she added, with the slightest hint of wryness, “Or so it would seem by the results of your master’s test.”

Ser Malfoy’s face twisted in anger. “He is not our master, he’s our King!”

Inwardly, she smiled. A direct hit to his pride. She had his number now. “Oh?” She arched her eyebrow again, her pretense at confusion lightly mocking in nature.

He sneered at her, and she noted that he was really remarkably attractive if even his sneers could make a woman’s heart beat faster.

“I see the quality of this court is going to go downhill the moment our King marries a whore who calls him ‘Master.’”

Before the men around her could even think to react, her wand was in her hand, and she had it pointed at Ser Malfoy’s throat. “You will apologize. Immediately.” She was pleased that her aim was steady, the anger that coursed through her no less effective for being channeled with discipline.

Ser Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, and his lip curled with disdain. He made no move to his own wand. “Such boorish behavior. That’s what happens when you give a _Mudblood_ a fancy dress and let her believe she is the equal of real wizards.”

Hermione had been expecting to deal with the ignorant and the prejudiced. She had braced herself for it, even had a taste of it with her run-ins with Lady Carrow.  And still, the word cut through her, sharp and stinging.

She forced herself to wait a beat before she hexed him, to emphasize her control and the deliberateness of her actions. But before she could, she was interrupted.

“Hermione.”

The voice of her husband-to-be was quietly chastising, but she recognized it by the tiny shiver that went down her back at the use of her name.

Slowly, she turned to look at him, conveying how little of a threat she found Ser Malfoy to be. She did not lower her wand, though she found herself instantly distracted.

The King was most impressive, and it took a moment for her to catch her breath. His long silver and black robes were not affixed with the same jewels that seemed to be the court custom. Instead their starkness only emphasized the strong lines of his handsome face.

Where she’d thought the courtiers in front of her had seemed dangerous and powerful, they appeared as petulant little boys playing at politics beside this regal man.

She’d found herself attracted to the young men around her, assessing their qualities and their effect in the same way she quietly analyzed her favorite research subjects. But something about the King called to her, drew her to him, in a way that was unlike anything she’d ever felt for anyone else. He was power and energy, an unstoppable force. The pull she felt towards him was that same indescribable need she felt to access her magic, to feel it wash over her and through her. The strength of her feeling at the sight of him shocked her, and she refrained, but barely, from shaking her head to clear it.

“Hermione,” he repeated, his voice drawing her from her churning thoughts. “We are not so uncouth as to draw our wands in court.”

His tone was deceptively mild, but she felt the sharp bite of it. With some effort, she swallowed down her irritation at seeing the annoying blond prat smirking at her after Riddle’s words. Coming as they did on the heels of her recent admiring thoughts, she felt a measure of hurt in addition to her embarrassment and aggravation.

She held her wand for a moment longer before she obeyed the implicit command, though it galled her to do so. She was not Queen, yet.

By the time her wand had been stowed, Riddle had closed the distance between them to stand beside her.

One by one, he fixed each of the men with his cold gaze. They held still under his scrutiny, though Hermione could tell they were anxious to move. He did not look at her, though she half expected him to deliver some kind of reprimand for her actions.

Finally, he turned to Ser Malfoy, who had carefully schooled his features back to a more respectful expression.

“Crucio.”

The word was simple, uttered without any feeling, but the change to the group was immediate.

The men quickly darted to the side as Ser Malfoy convulsed into a pile on the floor, his teeth gritted against screams that were trying to claw their way out of his mouth.

Hermione jumped back, her hands covering her mouth in horror. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. She’d never witnessed a man being tortured before, and her empty stomach threatened to revolt while a sheen of tears came to her eyes.

“Do you see, Hermione?” he said, though his attention was still on the man whose limbs were spasming uncontrollably. “There is no need to draw your wand in civilized society.”

She forced her arms down and her posture back to a pretense of relaxation. Rapidly, she tried to blink back the tears. Her future husband was displaying incredible wandless power on her behalf. It was important that she composed herself, even though inside she was recoiling in disgust at the torturing of another human being, no matter how vile he was.

The moment seemed to drag out in slow motion, and Hermione opened her mouth to beg him to stop.

Riddle ended the spell before she could speak, and Ser Malfoy collapsed on the floor, panting and wheezing.

With the grace of a panther, the King knelt to the ground, his robes pooling around him. His voice was low, but Hermione was sure everyone could hear every word.

“If I ever hear you speak to your Queen that way again, Little Malfoy, I will make you _wish_ for the bloodlessness, the elegant simplicity, of the Crucio.”

Then he stood and casually adjusted his robes before holding out an arm to Hermione.

She was still frozen at the scene before her, and couldn’t bring herself to take that step towards him.

He looked at her very calmly, his arm still out, his dark eyes focused on her like she was the only one in the room. With a shaky breath, she reminded herself of the need to stay unified, so she walked towards him, placing her hand on his arm. She knew he could feel the light trembles in her body, as he placed one of his hands over hers.

“Malfoy!” he called over his shoulder.

Hermione was surprised to see another man with platinum blond hair, this time in a long queue down his back, quickly stride over to them. Beyond him was a group of older men, pompous in their stiff robes, who looked with distaste at the young aristocrats.

“I am here, Your Majesty,” the new Malfoy said. The resemblance to the other one was very close. It was clear he must be the father or another close relative. Though he was older, he was equally as handsome, and his face looked as if it could be equally as cold. No wonder Ser Malfoy had assumed he would be instantaneously recognized. That silver-blond hair was very distinctive. She would not be forgetting that family any time soon.

“Lord Malfoy,” Riddle said. “Your whelp is in dire need of an education on manners. See that it is taken care of before he shows his face here again.”

“Yes, sire. It will be done, sire.” The man bowed several times before stepping back and hissing words that Hermione couldn’t make out, at the young man on the floor.

As if the incident was now wiped completely from his mind, Riddle looked at the woman on his arm and said, “You look very beautiful tonight, Hermione. I’m not usually fond of scarlets and golds, but in them you seem both as warm and as fierce as firelight.”

The compliment took her off guard, as her mind was still occupied with the scene behind her, where Sers Zabini and Nott were aiding the young Malfoy back to his feet.

She shook her head, trying in vain to clear it. “You are too kind, Your Majesty. May I say you are looking extremely…handsome…tonight, as well.” Though true, her words lacked the conviction she’d felt only a minute ago.

His smile was indulgent as he led her away from the others. “Truly, you will turn my head with such effusive words of praise.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, her words just above a whisper, running together as she spoke quickly. “I can’t—I just can’t—I’ve never seen. . . I can’t.” Now that no one else was watching her, the tears had come to her eyes again. She kept her gaze up to prevent them from falling.

After a moment, he asked her, “Do you trust me, Hermione?”

She opened her mouth to reply that she did, but she couldn’t make the word come out. He would know if she lied, anyway. “No.”

He seemed slightly disappointed, but he nodded at her response. “I will make this promise to you. We will discuss this incident as much as you like, until you are satisfied that you have the answers and explanations that you need to be comfortable. But I ask you to wait until after the ball. For right now, for tonight, we will present you to the people, announce our upcoming marriage, and pretend as if we have nothing more pressing on our minds. Can you trust me enough to wait, Hermione? To put this aside for just a few hours?”

She didn’t trust her voice, but hesitantly, she nodded. A few hours; she thought she could manage that.

He reached up to touch her face, his fingers wiping at the wetness on her cheek. The frown on his face was quite serious as his eyes glanced briefly to the knot of young men that still stood together several paces from them. She could see there was still anger beneath his calm surface, but when he turned back to her, it had gone again.

He called for her house-elf, quietly instructing Pheme to bring Hermione a Calming Draught.

She drank it reluctantly, but was glad for the steadying effect it had on her.

* * *

 

She barely remembered the rest of the ball.

Riddle kept her on his arm through most of it. After the initial announcement when they’d entered the hall with much fanfare, the King navigated her through the throngs of people, all of them wanting to meet her and to speak with the King.

Introductions were very formal, and Hermione did her best to remember as many names as she could, particularly the ones who gave her a genuine smile. She thought she might have recognized some of them from her trip to Vertic Alley.

One person in particular she remembered quite well.

“Dear girl, dear girl!” Ser Slughorn greeted her, kissing her outstretched hand quite profusely. “You proved yourself after all, you did! I knew you could do it! Didn’t I say so? And wasn’t I right?”

Hermione gave him her first real smile of the night, forbearing to mention that he’d said nothing of the sort. His enthusiasm and his pleasure in seeing her again more than made up for his faulty memory.

“You were very encouraging to me, Ser Slughorn,” Hermione acknowledged. “And as the first person at the castle to greet me and show me such kindness, I owe you a debt of gratitude for the way your kind words spurred my efforts.”

She said such a thing simply to be nice to the older man, but he was charmed by her words and the fact that she remembered him. Nothing would do but for her to agree to attend a dinner party he was having in a few nights. Indeed, he was throwing it in her honor and would be quite devastated if she did not agree to come.

In a bizarre sort of afterthought, he extended the invitation to the King who was still standing at her side watching their exchange.

“I regret that I am not able to attend,” Riddle told him, his voice sincere. “There are many preparations for me to make.” He turned to Hermione on his arm and added, “But if Lady Granger wishes to attend, I have no objection to her representing the both of us at your event.”

Ser Slughorn’s eyes lit up, focused on Hermione, who had no choice but to murmur her acceptance of his invitation.

Gravely, Riddle said, “And I am certain that I can entrust her safety to you for the evening. There are not many wizards, even here in Ophidia, of which I can say the same.”

Hermione realized in amazement that Riddle actually liked the old man. His compliment made Ser Slughorn preen like a peacock, and he left them with many assurances of the grand time they were going to have.

Once they were out of earshot, Hermione’s face must have asked the question that was on her mind. The King shrugged lightly, and said, by way of explanation, “He was one of the best Potions Masters Ophidia has ever seen. He taught me everything I know.”

Intrigued, Hermione turned back to look at the man who seemed to be telling everyone in his path that the future Queen was going to have dinner at his house. He didn’t look like a master at Potions.  
  
“His memory is not what it once was,” Riddle said, very quietly. “He retired several years ago, but couldn’t bring himself to take up a hobby to occupy his time, so he runs the gatepost and takes considerable gratification in being the first to greet the castle’s distinguished guests.”

Hermione smiled at Riddle’s permissiveness. In her mind, his gentle demeanor towards the elderly wizard was suddenly contrasted with the harsh treatment of the young blond noble. Her smile faded quickly at the remembrance.

For the rest of the evening, even when Riddle waltzed her quite divinely around the ballroom, the scene in the antechamber was never far from her mind.

She knew he hadn’t forgotten, as he was extremely solicitous of her throughout the night. And afterwards, when he’d walked her all the way back to the Queen’s Suite, he didn’t leave her at the door as he usually did.

In the sitting room, with Pheme casually dismissed, the King sat on the settee and invited Hermione to sit beside him.

Still in her jeweled attire, she sat stiffly, uncertain how to begin.

“Hermione.” After calling her Lady Granger all night, the touch of affection in his voice was clear as he spoke her given name. “I did promise you we could talk. Do you still wish to do so?”

She nodded, her throat tight. “I’m just—not sure where to start.”

“You were quite upset earlier,” Riddle observed gently. “Was it young Malfoy’s words? I assure you he will not make the mistake of being so disrespectful again.”

Vaguely, Hermione remembered the ugly sentiments that came out of the mouth of the beautiful young man. She’d nearly forgotten. “It is not the worst I have ever heard. And it is not as if I had not prepared myself for exactly such a thing. The prejudices of Pureblood wizards are not unknown to me.”

“It is your kind heart, then,” Riddle said, “that you would anguish over the suffering of your enemy.”

“He is not my enemy,” Hermione protested.

“For that moment in time, he was. He threatened your dignity, your emotional well-being, your standing in the eyes of others.” He waited while she digested those facts. “When you allow a wizard the freedom to make those trespasses, it is not long before he progresses to much more violent tactics. I stopped him before those thoughts could even take root, let alone come to fruition.”

“You tortured him,” she whispered, seeing again the contorted face of a man in agony.

“I disciplined him,” he corrected. “I take no pleasure in the pain of others. I do not torment men simply to watch them squirm under my wand. But from my subjects, especially those noble Pureblood families who set the example, I will have order. I will have self-control.”

His voice was hard as granite, the first time she’d ever heard it that way.

“You used an Unforgiveable on him,” she said, disbelievingly. In Brittania, such spells would be considered an offense punishable by execution or lifetime imprisonment.

“In Ophidia, there is no magic, no curse, that is outlawed.” He gestured towards her. “Visitors are prevented from having access to damaging curses, not because of the nature of the magic, but because of the nature of the foreigner who has no loyalty to this country and its people. But we do not believe there is anything that is Unforgiveable.”

“You don’t feel that there are some curses, some things that are simply too evil to be used?” She pushed her point, uncomprehending of how something as obviously wrong as torture could be excused.

“Magic is not evil,” Riddle said, shaking his head. “Even a tool that is created for an evil purpose is not itself evil. It is still a tool, and its use is decided by the hand that wields it. I used a tool to teach a young man a very hard lesson tonight.” He looked at her face, and his eyes softened a bare fraction. “I am sorry, however, that it grieved you to see it.”

She looked down at her lap—away from those eyes—at the wand she held tightly in her hand. The beauty of the intricately embroidered scenes on her gown seemed out of place when compared to the dreadful topic of conversation. She couldn’t imagine using her lovely vinewood wand with its delicately carved vines and leaves to cast a Crucio on another human being. Just the thought made her shudder. “It seems quite barbaric to me.”

“New ways and cultures often do,” he acknowledged. “It doesn’t make them wrong. Let me ask you, Hermione: In Brittania, you have much magic that is considered Dark and inappropriate for use by honorable wizards and witches, yes? Yet, with its righteous standards for ethical behavior, has Brittania eliminated crime, poverty, and disease?”

“Of course not,” she said, impatiently.

“And yet, are those not rectifiable ailments of humanity?” he pointed out. “Is it not within the reach of wizards to find solutions to those problems?”

“It’s not that easy. There are many complications to—”

“But Ophidia,” he interrupted her patiently, “is virtually free of all of those things. There is no wizard, witch or child who must go without food and shelter. There is no one without access to potions and a healer if they need one. My kingdom is clean, safe, and people have the freedom to be happy without worrying over how they will receive those basic necessities that consume the attention of others. Not every Ophidian is honorable. But judicious use of power ensures that every Ophidian abides by the requirement for honorable behavior.”

“Because if they do not, they are tortured?” she said with a touch of asperity. “You rule them with fear.”

“They are disciplined,” he corrected her again. “For their own good, as well as the good of the rest of Ophidia’s citizens. It would be cruel if I did _not_ use my power and allowed a lower living standard for my subjects simply because I considered myself too moral to enforce the law so strongly no one would dare break it.”

The set of her mouth made it clear that she wasn’t entirely convinced.

Riddle let the silence between them linger. When he spoke again, it was very gently. “If you can ever show me another way that yields the same highly successful results, I will make adjustments. As I said, I do not take joy in causing pain to others. I only do so because I know that a little pain now spares many others much more pain in the future.” He considered her solemnly, bending a little to catch her eyes. When she looked up at him, he offered, “Perhaps, Hermione, you will solve that particular riddle as well and create a better of way of ruling that does not require such harsh disciplinary measures.”

She hated to admit that while a part of her knew that it was wrong to use pain to motivate or to persuade others, another part of her could see that Ophidia and its citizens were healthier and happier than any other country she’d ever visited. Ophidia was a shining example of a nation that had peace and safety for its inhabitants. That was one of the reasons she was so upset to see such a terrible curse in use, and by the King, no less.

“Perhaps I will,” she answered him. She resolved that one of her first projects would be to find a way to make Ophidia an example in truly ethical and moral government.

It surprised her how quickly she had adopted what would soon be her new country. She was already taking such pride in its accomplishments and its people, that it hurt her on a personal level to see the appalling dark flaw that ran through Ophidian society. It was foolish to feel so betrayed, so disillusioned.

He nodded at her answer, as if he expected no less, and with the conversation concluded, he rose to leave her for the night.

She looked up at the elegant man as he politely bid her goodnight. He was brilliant, sophisticated, refined. Even in his anger, while a man screamed in pain at his feet, he was dignified and graceful. She didn’t want to believe the worst of him. She was certain that he was a man who could be a true match for her; for her visions for the future, as well as her ideals. He just needed…a partner—someone who could help him build a better world without having to compromise integrity and goodness. She was equally as certain that she could be that partner. She was _going_ to be that partner, in less than three weeks.

As she prepared for bed, this time in a proper nightgown worthy of royalty, she reluctantly faced the fact that it was obviously not just the country that had so quickly won her loyalty. It might be the wiser choice to renounce her claim to the throne and return to Brittania, but the thought did not even cross her mind as she already considered herself committed to the Ophidian people—and the Ophidian King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)


	14. Chapter 14

Hermione smiled to herself as she walked down the corridor back to her rooms in the Queen’s suite.

With Luna off on a day trip to creature-hunt in the countryside and Astoria absorbed with family obligations, she’d had the whole day to herself. She’d decided to visit Vertic Alley again. It had been only a few days since she’d last been there, but she felt like things had already changed significantly.

The vendors that had been friendly to her before were ecstatic to see her, bowing down to her even though she’d laughingly protested that she wasn’t even Queen, yet.

The ones who had previously been unfriendly to her, now greeted her, albeit stiffly, and reluctantly offered her samples of their wares with shaking hands. Whenever she’d made to refuse, a look of such fear had come into their eyes that she’d ended up having to accept the gifts anyway.

Though she wanted to snub them for their unkind treatment based on her blood status, she knew that all of her actions would reflect on the King and on her future position as his wife. She couldn’t afford to alienate anyone or to start wars, when she wasn’t entirely sure what the political landscape was like.

So, she’d changed her approach to simply continue refusing until they offered her the very smallest gift possible, and only then would she accept it, carefully placing it into her small, beaded bag. At that time, the fear that they would be refused entirely would give way to relief, and Hermione would offer them a big smile to show them that there were no hard feelings.

She was quite pleased with the way she’d conducted herself. She’d strengthened ties with those who had supported her, and she’d begun to bridge the gap and earn the respect of those who had been against her. The majority of people she brushed shoulders with in Vertic still didn’t know who she was, although there were far more this time who watched her with wide-eyes as she passed, even with her face hidden deep in her hood.

She pushed open the doors to her rooms. As she rounded the corner, trying to remember all the notes she had for Astoria, she suddenly stopped short. The King was standing in the center of the sitting room, his back towards her as he gazed out the window at the late afternoon sunlight.

Hesitantly, she cleared her throat, wondering how she was supposed to announce her presence. The sound didn’t seem to affect the King at all, and for a moment more he watched the sky turn from oranges to reds with the setting sun. Finally, he turned, obviously unsurprised to see Hermione standing there.

With a glance, he took in her casual attire.

She’d worn Muggle clothes under her Wizarding cloak, unashamed of her heritage. She resisted the urge to reach up and touch the flowers that adorned her hair, courtesy of one of the flower vendors who had said the creamy blooms had complemented her coloring. It seemed a bit young and silly now.

With her back stiff and straight, she gave the King a small curtsy, pleased when her motions were smooth. It wasn’t the same without a big, flowing skirt, but she’d been practicing, and Astoria wouldn’t let her stop until she’d done at least one perfect one.

“Your Majesty,” she greeted him, with a neutral tone. “Forgive me, I wasn’t expecting you today.”

“My duties ended earlier than expected,” he offered, by way of explanation. “I came to see how you were faring with the wedding plans and the adjustment to castle life.”

“And for the pleasure of my company?”

Her wry tone caused a genuine smile to appear on his face. “That goes without saying.”

She felt the warmth come to her cheeks, even though she’d been fishing for the compliment.

He gestured to her couches. “May I?”

“Oh, yes, of course, please sit,” she said hastily. Surely, he hadn’t been standing this whole time just because there wasn’t anyone to offer him a seat! She fervently hoped he hadn’t been waiting for her for very long.

As he settled into a corner of the settee, she boldly decided to sit next to him, her heart still pounding in her chest at the surprise of finding him in her rooms. That was why, of course.

“Did you find nothing to your liking in Vertic Alley?” he asked, noting that she had no other bags with her.

She should have known that he would be aware of exactly where she’d been. No doubt her whereabouts were being reported on.

“I enjoyed myself immensely,” she said. “I made several purchases for my family and friends back ho—back in Brittania.” She knew he didn’t miss her correction. “There’s a charm on the bag, it makes it much easier to carry everything. Just the assorted gifts from the vendors along the way would have been enough to weigh me down.”

At this statement, he raised one eyebrow, as if encouraging her to elaborate.

“I only accepted the most modest ones,” she quickly said, second-guessing herself for the first time. “It seemed like the most logical course of action not to refuse their generosity entirely.”

He nodded. “Quite right. I’m sure you handled yourself well. Were your friends not able to accompany you this afternoon? I have been used to seeing Miss Lovegood and Miss Greengrasidi often in your company.”

“I’m afraid they were busy today,” she answered him.

The King continued to look at her, the dark intensity in his eyes something she hadn’t been able to get used to, yet. After a moment, he called out, “Pheme!”

The house-elf popped in front of him before he’d even finished. Her eyes were very wide, and she folded her hands in front of her uncertainly. “Pheme is here, Your Majesty.” She quickly remembered her curtsy, and dipped down very briefly. “How can Pheme be of service?”

With a calm voice, reassuring the house-elf that she’d done nothing wrong, he said, “Pheme, it would please me if you would be certain to accompany Lady Granger when she goes out on her excursions away from the castle, particularly when her friends are otherwise occupied. It is my wish that she not travel alone.”

“Pheme will see it done, Your Majesty.” The little elf dipped her head again, her ears quivering in what Hermione thought was either nervousness or excitement.

The King’s heavy-handedness irritated her. “Belay that order, Pheme,” she said, in a strong voice. Turning to King Riddle, she told him, “I appreciate your attempts to look out for my welfare, but I assure you that I can easily look after myself. I do not need for you to make decisions about where I can go, and whom I can go with.”

He lifted an eyebrow at her words. “You’ll notice,” he pointed out, “that I didn’t make any restrictions about where you could go, or who you could go with, or imply that you were unable to look after yourself. I simply stated that I do not wish you to travel alone.”

She gritted her teeth. “But from that, one would infer that you think my safety is at risk. I assure you that I am well able to care for my own safety.” Beside her, she heard the slightest pop of Pheme leaving, no doubt recognizing that she did not want to be in the middle of an argument between the King and the future Queen.

It irritated her that though her own hackles were up, as if she were on the brink of a fight, the King seemed more amused by her words than offended.

“Hermione,” he said, his voice laden with patience, “Ophidia is a very safe place for you to walk around. Particularly since it became known that you would be the next future Queen. None of the citizens would dare to lay a finger on you.” He smiled at her. “Do you think that if I was concerned for your safety that my first recourse would be to place Pheme as your protector?”

Hermione blinked, the vision of Pheme jumping on the back of an attacker and squealing at the top of her lungs suddenly making her see what Riddle found so amusing. She was careful not to let her lips quirk upwards.

For several moments she held his gaze, letting her ire die down.

Riddle spoke first, in words Hermione thought were meant to appease her. “It is customary for any member of the royal family, even an uncrowned one, to travel with a representative from the castle, as a mark of their station and their authority. I had assumed,” he smirked pointedly at her, “and correctly, it would seem, that you wouldn’t take kindly to one of the knights following you around. Your house-elf seemed like the logical option.”

She told herself she’d come back to the house-elf thing. But there was something else she had to say first. “Is it because I’m a woman? You feel that I need to be chaperoned wherever I go? I notice you do not travel with any guards or house-elves.”

At this statement, the King actually laughed aloud. “Ser Avery,” he said.

Behind Hermione, there was a sudden movement, and she startled in her seat, turning to look. A man stood there, unsmiling, dressed in the uniform of Castle Marvolo, but with what appeared to be his own family crest on his sleeves. He was noticeably older than the King, the hair at his temples beginning to grey. He appeared fit and healthy, and Hermione assumed he was a guard of some sort. Had he always been there during her interactions with the King? Did he use concealment charms, perhaps? She tried to refrain from reviewing each of their conversations to see what the man might have overheard.

When the King spoke, her attention came back to him. “Ser Avery has served me since I ascended the throne and is one of my most loyal subjects. Though I do not have need of a guard, he does fill that purpose, and it pleases him to call himself that.” The humor in his voice made Hermione think that he allowed Ser Avery the position more to satisfy the man than for his own need.

The knight spoke gruffly. “House Avery has served House Marvolo for generations. When I die, my son will take my position. It is our privilege to do so, regardless of whether the King needs us or not.”

Hermione got the distinct feeling this was an argument that the two had had many times.

The King turned his attention from the man, and called out another name. “Ioke!”

Another house-elf suddenly appeared before her. She didn’t hear the pop of Apparition, so either this elf was extremely good at it, or he had also been in position already. She’d have to remember that for the future.

“Are there any other servants lurking nearby?” she wondered, slightly peeved.

With a gesture to Ioke and Ser Avery, King Riddle said, “Only these two. And even then, not often in the castle.” As if anticipating her next question, he said, “They will not come into your private quarters unless I am present. And they will not come into our private quarters when we are both present, without announcing themselves.”

The way he emphasized the ‘our’ made Hermione remember that she would likely be spending considerable time in the King’s suite, as well as in her own. In an effort to avoid thinking thoughts that the King would see plainly on her face, she turned to look at the house-elf in front of her.

He was slightly bigger than most of the other house-elves, and unlike the good-natured ones that she’d seen carrying about in the castle, Ioke had a very solemn expression on his face. He stood stiffly at attention, his eyes focused on something over her shoulder.

With a slight frown, Hermione looked from Ioke to the King and confirmed that, as she’d thought, Ioke was indeed wearing a very tiny house-elf version of the King’s leathers. The soft leather was a green not quite as dark as the King’s, but it was complete with a little belt knife at his waist and a hood that hung down his back. For a moment, she pictured him with the hood up, and wondered if he had holes cut out for his ears to stick through.

With a slight cough, she prevented herself from laughing at the serious elf, although for all his movement, she didn’t think he would have noticed at all.

Seeing her amusement, the King once again called for Pheme.

She appeared with a pop beside Ioke, whose ears trembled for the slightest instant. Hermione thought she saw his stiff back seem to get even straighter and his determined face even more severe.

Pheme frowned at the other elf and took an exaggerated step away, lifting her nose just a bit into the air before giving the King her very best curtsy.

Looking at her, Hermione started in surprise. Pheme was now wearing a miniature version of the garland that was in her own hair. The much smaller blossoms were almost the exact same shade as Hermione’s, and were perched on her little head pushing Pheme’s ears to hang down.

Hermione blinked, uncertain of what to say, self-consciously avoiding reaching up to touch her own flower crown.

The King leaned towards her and said in a low voice, “It’s not uncommon for house-elves to imitate their masters. It’s a sign of high favor.”

Ah, that reminded her of what else she wanted to talk about. She took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I don’t want a personal house-elf for a servant. I feel that—”

Her words were cut off by a horrified squeak from Pheme. Her big eyes had opened wide, and her ears shook in alarm, the flowers falling at her little feet.

Beside her, Ioke had been shocked out of his sternness, as he looked uncomfortably at the clearly distraught house-elf. He swayed towards her like he was going to take a step before he firmed his stance again, looking down furiously at his feet.

Pheme stalwartly tried to hold back her wail of distress, her hands placed over her mouth, but Hermione could see the tears welling in her big eyes. “A-As Mistress wishes,” she said, her voice muffled between her fingers.

“Oh, no, Pheme,” Hermione quickly apologized. “I don’t mean anything against you, personally. You’ve helped me wonderfully. You’ve been brilliant, actually.” The elf’s eyes turned hopeful at her kind words, and Hermione’s voice faltered. “I just mean—I haven’t—I don’t—” She stopped, looking helplessly at Riddle who just raised one eyebrow.

“I’m not used to having house-elves, Pheme,” Hermione finally said, feeling terrible at hurting her little friend. “I have always done things myself. I need a little time,” she explained, though she forbore from mentioning what she needed the time for.

The King must have taken pity on the awkward situation, as he waved his hand and indicated to Ioke that he should remove Pheme to the kitchens for a bit of a break. “Have some galatopita, Pheme,” King Riddle suggested kindly, “and by the time you’re finished, perhaps Lady Granger and I will be ready for you to bring us some tea.”

The elves both nodded, though Pheme Disapparated to the kitchens without waiting for Ioke, who frowned at the empty space she’d been standing in, before he, too, popped out.

Into the silence left in their wake, the King said with good humor, “He was going to be useless to me, anyway, until he knew she was over her upset.” He shook his head in amusement. “He’s been trying to get her to notice him for a year now.”

Surprised into forgetting her argument, Hermione considered the empty floor space that had recently held two house-elves and now just held a few broken flowers on the floor. “Really? Do house-elves…court?” She couldn’t seem to wrap her mind around the idea of a house-elf romance. She’d never witnessed such a thing.

“Maybe now they’ll finally get their heads together,” Riddle said, solemnly.

“Their heads?” Hermione asked, confused.

“Yes, when two house-elves finish courting, they close their eyes, and put their big foreheads together. A golden glow envelops them, and it shrinks into a tiny pinpoint of light, and from that light a tiny baby house-elf grows and floats down into their arms.”

Hermione gaped at him. “Is that really how…how baby house-elves are born?”

From behind her, she heard a snort of laughter.

The King’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he said, “Ser Avery, that will be all.” There wasn’t even a rustle to indicate the knight’s exit.

Embarrassed at her gullibility, Hermione shut her mouth, trying to keep her cheeks from coloring as she knew they probably were. She frowned at herself. Why did the King always seem to get the upper hand in their conversations?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)


	15. Chapter 15

“I understand,” King Riddle said to Hermione, politely refraining from commenting on her flushed face, “that you are something of an expert on house-elves. They are a pet project of yours?” He was settled back into her couch, quite content, it seemed, to continue their conversation.

Deciding to completely ignore her lack of information on the subject of house-elf procreation, she corrected, “I’m just particularly interested in elvish welfare.” She took a deep breath before elaborating on what was often a sensitive subject for many. “My work in the Ministry involves ensuring the rights of magical beings. In Brittania, house-elves are treated as slaves and are cruelly abused by their masters.”

The King nodded slowly. “I do recall seeing such things on my trips to Brittania.”

A little bit of tension left Hermione’s shoulders at his response to one of her most passionate topics. “I think it’s unconscionable that humans could subject other beings to such terrible living conditions. House-elves are raised in fear, punished when they make the tiniest mistakes, or forced to punish themselves. They are poorly fed, receiving no payment for their service. They are forced to serve their masters. They have no choice. Not even any clothes.”

It was an old argument of Hermione’s, and the reason she’d chosen to pursue a career at the Ministry. She couldn’t bear the idea of ignoring or deliberately overlooking the suffering of others. It was perhaps too soon to bring up a topic she had noticed was always a sensitive one to wizards. But the way King Riddle responded to their previous conversations made her feel easy that she could speak her mind and be heard.

The King made a grimace of distaste. “I have noticed this practice, and I’m afraid it feels rather barbaric to me. What possible value does a naked house-elf serve?”

“I feel the whole practice of owning house-elves is barbaric,” she said, boldly. “To own another intelligent being, and to force it to endure indignities simply to provide a luxury for you, is utterly reprehensible. I think it is one of the Wizarding world’s greatest failings, that they often choose not to recognize the rights of other magical creatures.”

She could feel herself getting upset at the subject, as she did every time it was brought up. Being in Ophidia, where the house-elves all appeared to be in good health, at least, made it easy to forget what she had witnessed back home, and what she believed to be a basic fundamental right of all intelligent beings.

“Do the house-elves in Ophidia appear to you to be lacking in dignity, or in basic rights?” he questioned her, his eyebrows raised slightly.

“No,” Hermione admitted. “They all seem remarkably well-fed and properly clothed.” She remembered Pheme’s gleeful consumption of several slices of milk pie. “I’m not sure what the system is like here in Ophidia, but does the fact that the house-elves all wear clothing indicate, then, that they are all free?” She tried to keep the hope out of her voice. But she had noticed how well-treated the elves were, and if it was the result of a system of employing free elves, she was excited to be able to share Ophidia’s success with the Ministry in Brittania.

“What does it mean to you to be free?” he asked, instead of answering her question.

Without hesitation, she said, “It means they are not slaves, not forced into subservience. They have the freedom to choose.”

“My understanding of house-elves, including the ones in Brittania, is that it is in their nature to serve.” The King looked at her doubtfully. “Is it a question of freedom, or a question of wizards responsibly meeting the needs of those under their care?”

She frowned at his words and their implications. “I think house-elves, like other magical beings should be able to decide on how to meet their own needs and provide for their own care.”

“I agree that expecting elves to go naked as a display of power is a misuse of resources; a foolish practice.” He dismissed the traditions of other countries with a careless wave of his hand. “But if an elf is doing that which is in their nature, either clothed or unclothed, then is their freedom ever really jeopardized?”

“I don’t understand.” Hermione’s eyes narrowed at him. “Are you saying Ophidian house-elves are simply well-dressed slaves?”

“You have not yet provided an adequate picture of what slavery means.”

Hermione considered his words. He obviously expected her to make a clearer case. But she took heart at the fact that he wasn’t dismissing her ideas out of hand. Trying to break her thoughts down into questions with simple answers, she asked, “Are house-elves forced to serve?”

He smiled. “Have you ever tried to force a house-elf to do anything? Many have served the noble families of Ophidia for generations. You could not stop them, even if you were inclined to try.”

That was probably true. Though Hermione had seen many house-elves forced to do things they did not want to do, she had also noted many other house-elves who could not be convinced to stop serving their masters, either. She changed her tactic. “Do you own them?”

He seemed to consider the set of her face before he answered her, very carefully, “There are house-elves that belong to me, personally, and many more that belong to Castle Marvolo. I am responsible for their welfare, not unlike my responsibility to the other subjects of my kingdom, and they are responsible for service to me and my guests. It is very simple.”

“That sounds like ownership,” she pointed out, carefully keeping any hints of triumph out of her voice.

“Your feelings on ownership and freedom are very rigid and do not take into account the intricacies of relationships and customs. Everyone has a role to fulfill. It is as easily true of humans, families, businesses—as it is of house-elves.”

“And yet,” Hermione argued, “it is wizards, along with centuries of tradition, who are defining for the house-elves just what that role looks like. And they define it in a way that is favorable to themselves.”

For a moment, Riddle appeared to consider her words, and she wondered if by some miracle she had made a point that he understood.

“Steward Aidos,” he suddenly called, in what she was coming to recognize was his formal voice.

The diminutive elf appeared before him with the very quietest of pops. Today her uniform was a smart, high-collared dress of silver threads embroidered on black silk, and like all the others, it reached all the way down to the ground.

“Your Majesty!” Aidos greeted him with a bow. To Hermione she gave another bow. “Her Ladyship. How may Aidos serve?”

“Aidos,” the King said, gravely. “My bride wishes to question you on the nature of freedom and servitude. As the highest ranked house-elf in the land, I was certain you could provide her with the information she seeks.

The elf’s ears twitched with pleasure at the King’s praise. If it was possible, she stood even taller, her little spine stiff and straight. “Of course, Your Majesty.” Turning to Hermione she said, “Speak your questions, my lady, and Aidos will answer.”

Though she knew she was being put on the spot, Hermione smiled down at the proud elf. “I do like your dress, Steward,” she offered as a start. “As always, it has such beautiful embroidery on it.”

Truly professional, Aidos was not remotely flustered by this apparent change in topic. “Aidos is very good with very small needles,” she said with a pleased smile.

“In my country,” Hermione began, before she saw Steward Aidos begin to frown at her wording. “I mean, in Brittania, it is customary for house-elves only to be given clothing when they are granted their freedom.”

The Steward frowned and her ears drooped slightly, though she was too well-mannered to comment on another country’s customs.

“I wish to know,” Hermione continued, “if Ophidia’s house-elves are free, or if they are in servitude to their masters.”

For several moments, no one spoke, as the little elf stood there stiffly, her eyes on the ground. Finally, she said, in a meek voice, “Forgive Aidos, Mistress, but Aidos believes elves are both. They are free to serve their masters.”

Hermione sighed inwardly. Honestly, it was not very different than many of the conversations she’d had with Brittanian house-elves, except that this elf did not immediately begin to self-harm and punish herself as soon as she discussed the subject of freedom.

She reminded herself to ask more specific questions. “Do you receive payment for your services, Aidos?”

“Aidos does not need payment. Aidos is a house-elf,” she said, clearly confused. “Money is for wizards.”

“How do you afford your dresses?” Hermione asked. “Or the thread for your embroidery?”

“House-elves receive the things they want from their Masters. Castle-elves ask the Steward, so as not to bother His Majesty. Aidos is the Steward and does not ask.” Her ears shook in righteous indignation as she added, “But Aidos does not take too much! There is always enough for all!”

“No, of course not,” Hermione soothed her. “You are a wonderful Steward, as I can see Castle Marvolo is run with amazing efficiency.”

Appeased, Steward Aidos nodded her head. “A place for each one, and each one in his place.” At Hermione’s questioning look, the elf explained, “It is written on the Steward’s desk, by a Steward many years before Aidos.” It was clear the little elf had taken the motto very much to heart.

Hermione tried another question. “If a house-elf wished to do something else besides serve a House, perhaps travel and explore the world, would they be free to do so?”

“It is a sad thing when an elf has no more House to serve. But why would an elf need to stop serving their House to…travel? A house-elf can serve many ways, including while traveling.” The look on her face made it clear that she did not understand such longings herself.

“What if the elf wished to serve a different House?” Hermione asked. “Are they free to choose a new place of employment?”

The Steward looked aghast at the thought. “Abandon one’s House? No elf would do such a thing! Shame to the elf, shame to the House.” She shook her head very violently. “We do not choose our House or our Masters! Or change them, as if they were just a skin we can shed.”

“If you cannot leave, and you are not paid, Steward Aidos, then are you the property of House Marvolo? Or are you a free elf?” Hermione felt her questions had been leading to only one possible conclusion, disappointing thought it was.

The elf continued to stand still as she thought on this question. Her little hands were clasped together, resting carefully on the skirt of her dress. When she finally spoke, it was to ask a question. “Is His Majesty the King considered a free wizard?”

Taken aback, Hermione glanced first at King Riddle, who declined to answer the question. Turning back to the elf, she said, “Yes, the King is a free wizard.”

“Pardon Mistress,” Aidos said, “but His Majesty was born to House Marvolo, and so he serves Ophidia without payment. He cannot choose to serve a different House.” She paused and then asked, “Is Mistress certain the King is a free wizard?”

Seeing the point that the house-elf was trying to make, and deciding this conversation was not going to go any further, Hermione nodded. “Yes, Aidos, the King is a free wizard, you are correct.”

The elf’s face broke out into a huge beaming grin. “Then house-elves are all free-elves, too, Mistress! Free to serve, as the King does.” It was clear the elf considered herself relieved of a considerable burden.

After Hermione thanked her for her time, the elf Apparated away, happy to have served once more.

She looked at the King ruefully, and he raised one eyebrow at her.

“I had similar conversations with the house-elves in Brittania,” she admitted. “Other than a very few independent elves, most elves are unaware or uncaring of their status as servants. Which is why I had chosen to focus my time in the Ministry on their welfare, and ensuring they were not mistreated.” She sighed, remember how difficult that job had been. “I’m not truly certain I accomplished much, but I do hope the elves whose cases I handled, led happier lives.”

She toyed with the strap of the bag she still held, finding it comforting to have something to fiddle with. Though she’d been proud of her work, it did make her sad to think how little she’d really accomplished during her time at the Ministry. And now she would no longer be available to help make her mother country a better place.

There was a flurry of movement as their two house-elves popped back in. Pheme, the tears gone now from her face, carefully set down a teapot along with some cups and saucers. Beside her, Ioke carried a large plate full of biscuits, the frown on his face at performing kitchen duties warring with his obvious pleasure at being assigned a task with Pheme.

Once Pheme had arranged the plate to her satisfaction and poured the tea, she curtsied and left.

Ioke remained awkwardly standing and staring at the place where she’d left, when the King dismissed him, as he had Ser Avery.

With a slight smile on his face, King Riddle turned to Hermione and said, in a reassuring manner, “House-elves in Ophidia are very well cared for, and you’ve seen for yourself that they are generally quite happy in their positions.”

It was true, and so Hermione nodded, not seeing any reason to begrudge him that admittance.

Grabbing a cup of tea and settling back into the sofa, the King continued in a conversational manner, “I find that an important factor in happiness—for anyone, be it wizard or witch, Muggle or elf—is to find and be satisfied in one’s place in the world.”

Hermione thought of the motto that the house-elf had just quoted to her about everything being in its place. The idea of applying it to intelligent beings just rubbed her the wrong way.

“Sometimes we like to choose for ourselves what our place in the world is,” she said, pointedly, as she carefully picked out a biscuit.

“Life is full of versatility,” he agreed. “Still, there are some truths that are irrefutable, and the world suffers greatly when we try to deny them. A house-elf desires to be treated like a wizard no more than a wizard desires to be treated like a house-elf.” As if in an afterthought, he added, “It is the same with wizards and Muggles as well.”

“Wizards and Muggles are the same species,” Hermione objected. “They are equal, despite the fact that one group has magic and the other does not.”

“And yet it is not about equality,” Riddle argued. “A house-elf is not less valued or less equal in its existence because it is not a wizard. A Pensieve does not complain that it is not a wand. We exist in the forms that we are, we answer to the purpose that we were meant for, and it is only when we try to deny these truths about ourselves and others that the world is out of balance. Wizards and Muggles have much in common, and share a same basic heritage, and yet they are fundamentally and irrevocably disparate.”

“That’s because you have lived in a society that has eschewed all contact with Muggles for hundreds of years. We are the same, really. They simply do not have magic. Not having magic doesn’t inherently make one group inferior.” Hermione thought of her own parents, of the friends she had growing up, of the life she would have lived had she never been told she was a witch. A perfectly valid lifestyle, had she not known she had a different choice.

Riddle considered what she said, as if he could see her thinking about the life course she’d abandoned to pursue her education at Hogwarts. “Where do you feel most at home—the Muggle world, or the Wizarding one?”

She resisted the impulse to roll her eyes as she chewed her biscuit. “The Wizarding one, of course. This is the world where I can perform magic. But if I could not, there’s no reason I couldn’t be equally at home in the Muggle world.”

The king cocked his head to one side, his eyes hard on hers. “When you didn’t know you could perform magic, did you truly feel at home in the Muggle world? Did you never feel that there was something different about you? That you had a destiny for something much bigger than you could see?”

She opened her mouth to reply that of _course_ she was at home in the Muggle world. But those eyes seemed to stare right through her, causing her to question her gut reaction. She furrowed her brow in thought. Had she ever truly felt at home as a Muggle child? Didn’t she struggle to fit into her family and with her classmates? Just because she was accepted didn’t mean she felt at home.

She didn’t consider being less than truthful as she knew he’d be able to tell, even though he claimed he wasn’t reading her mind. She remembered that feeling in the back of her mind that had drawn her to Ophidia in the first place, the feeling that she was meant for more than the life she had, even in Wizarding Brittania. “I suppose so,” she said, slowly, noncommittally.

Patiently, he emphasized to her, “Because you were _never_ a Muggle. Though you lived, for a time, as a Muggle, you have been a witch since the moment of your birth. The magic in you speaks to the magic in all of us. A Muggle can never truly understand it.” He shrugged. “Actually, they do not want to. They much prefer to remain in ignorance.”

She really did roll her eyes that time. “That’s easy for you to say, when you want to justify keeping them in ignorance.”

Her statement was delivered in a biting tone, and he raised one eyebrow at her.

When she did not elaborate, he continued. “Muggles fear Wizards. At best, they are uncomfortable; at worst, they view Wizardkind as an abomination that must be eradicated. There are centuries of history to prove this. It is not just for our own protection but for theirs as well, that the two societies have been separated. Though I do personally believe there is a way we can have a society in which both wizards and Muggles have a proper place they are satisfied in, there is no government, no society strong enough, as of yet, to cope with that kind of upheaval.”

“A ‘proper place’?” Hermione scrunched up her nose in horror. “Do you mean to suggest that Muggles should serve Wizardkind? Like a…like a…like house-elves?”

The King shook his head slightly. “Hermione, you are the one that thinks being a house-elf is inferior. Or that making a distinction between Muggles and wizards means that one group has to be inferior. Understanding and accepting that which makes us different, and creating a world where each one can thrive according to their _nature_ is not wrong.”

“House-elves are a completely different creature. I don’t pretend to understand everything about what motivates them, though I believe they deserve to be respected, cared for, and given the freedom to make their own choices.”

“Agreed,” Riddle said, amiably.

“But Muggles and Wizards are the same,” she pointed out. “We have the same emotions, the same motivations, the same desires and fears. The only thing that separates us is the use of magic, and that’s really no more different than any other inborn skill one group of people might have that another group might not.”

Gravely, Riddle said, “We use magic as the basic delineation between Muggle and Wizard. But a squib, who cannot perform magic, is no more a Muggle, than a Muggle, who by some hypothetical means could perform magic, would be a wizard. It is the clearest sign we have, but it is not the strictest definition. If you could perform house-elf magic, would it make you a house-elf?”

She had to concede that it did not, though it galled her to acknowledge his point.

As if satisfied that she understood him, he sipped from his cup and said in a much more easygoing tone, “The differences between us may not be large, but they are significant.”

Hermione hummed noncommittally, reaching for her own cup and taking a sip. Her hand shook the tiniest bit, and she grimaced as she tried to hide it. She could tell when she was getting too emotionally involved in a conversation, because her blood started pounding. She had this restless feeling, the kind she imagined a duelist might feel right before a fight—a burst of energy and righteous indignation. With nowhere for the energy to go, instead her body vibrated, poised for action, and she ruthlessly pushed it back down.

She had many more things to say on this subject, and it took all of her self-control to refrain from saying anything further. She had already come to the conclusion that King Riddle responded best to calm and logical arguments, and if she let on how much those prevalent attitudes toward Muggles really upset her, she would lose whatever respect she had gained from their previous interactions.

She reminded herself that it was only her first month in Ophidia. There was plenty of time for her to build her arguments, to guide common perception, perhaps even to actively work on more progressive laws. In a couple of weeks, she would be a queen, and though she’d have considerable influence, she certainly couldn’t expect to change the views of an entire country—or even just one man—in a single hour.

Setting her cup back onto its saucer, she took a deep breath. When she looked up at Riddle, she realized he’d been watching her the entire time she was gathering her thoughts. His eyes held a knowing look in them as if he could see the internal battle she was having with herself.

She’d just decided that she would be proper and controlled, and perhaps attempt to change the subject to a less controversial one, but the amused look on his face all too easily made her forget that decision.

She scowled at him and huffed as she grabbed another biscuit off the tray and bit into it with no little irritation.

To her chagrin, he laughed most heartily and winked at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)


	16. Chapter 16

Dinner at Ser Slughorn’s home was affectionately referred to as the ‘Slug Club’ by many of the noble class. A confirmed bachelor and a harmless gossip, Ser Slughorn delighted in being known for hosting exclusive dinners. Anyone who was anyone was eventually ‘collected’ by Slughorn to add to his ever-growing list of illustrious acquaintances.

Astoria said that the Ophidian nobles regarded him quite good-naturedly. He had once had a very prominent position in society and the King was known to be quite fond of him. Though an invitation to his home was not considered quite the honor he himself thought, it did carry a certain distinction that could only be helpful to Hermione’s reputation.

It was common knowledge that the Malfoy family was not part of the Slug Club. For reasons unknown, Ser Slughorn regularly overlooked them when making up his guest lists. The Malfoys claimed that they had no desire to participate in such a ridiculous custom, but everyone knew they were just trying to save face at being slighted by someone of such inferior social standing.  
  
Hermione didn’t much care what their reasons were, she was just relieved that she would not have to face any of them at the first event where she was entirely on her own.

Being the future Queen of Ophidia meant that she was the guest of honor.

Being a foreigner and a Muggle-born meant that she was also an object of intense curiosity.  

So, being that Astoria and Luna were not invited, and that Riddle did not accompany her, she would have to triumph alone at this dinner.

Perhaps Slughorn was sensitive to this fact, as Hermione was pleasantly surprised to discover that all the other guests were remarkably good company. Most had never met any Muggles, but they managed to ask about Hermione’s life back in Brittania without the kind of sordid curiosity and xenophobic commentary she’d been expecting.

A long conversation with Ser Regulus Black led to some fascinating insights into common misconceptions Purebloods had about Muggles. He told her of a cousin of his who had left Ophidia and married a Muggle. Disowned by her family and unable to return to the country of her birth, she claimed to be perfectly happy in her new life. Her only sister had married into the Malfoy family and refused to speak of her. The rest of the Black family did likewise, but his older brother Sirius had ventured to Brittania a time or two, looking for an adventure.

Ser Black couldn’t understand it, but he was intrigued by Hermione’s stories of the wonders that Muggles had invented that allowed them to cope without magic. He’d always been convinced his brother was simply making up stories for his gullible younger brother.

When Hermione asked him if he ever had a desire to see for himself, he shook his head and claimed he was content with the lifestyle that Ophidia offered him. If his King required it of him, he would be happy to serve in any way possible, but Ophidia would always be his home.

As Hermione spoke with many of the guests around the table, she noted that it was a very common sentiment. Wanderlust like Astoria’s was very rare. The wizards and witches spoke of Ophidia with incredible affection, almost as if the country was a real person; their loyalty was beyond question, and leaving Ophidia was a betrayal.

Much like Astoria though, when they discussed Ophidia, Hermione noticed they tended to stroke one of their arms.

After dinner, Hermione asked Ser Slughorn about this habit.

“Everyone seems to do it,” she said, “although they don’t seem to realize it. I hesitate to ask them, in case it is a taboo subject.” She smiled at him, careful to keep her voice from carrying too far beyond their seats by the fire. “They might. . . misunderstand. But I was sure that you, at least, would not judge me too harshly for my ignorance.”

He let out a chuckle, the jovial sound causing a few heads to turn their way. Hermione gave them all a pleasant smile, as if Ser Slughorn had simply laughed at one of her jokes.

“You must mean the Mark, of course! Nothing taboo about that at all.” He rolled up one of his sleeves, to reveal a tattoo of the Mark of Ophidia.

The skull and serpent that adorned so many items at Castle Marvolo seemed particularly sinister when showcased on the skin. Hermione did her best not to frown at it.

“Are you saying that it is common for Ophidians to get this same tattoo on their arm?”  

Slughorn shook his head. “My dear girl, has no one told you? It is not simply a passing fad, or a trend of fashionable youth. Every son and daughter of Ophidia bears her Mark.”

“ _Every_ Ophidian?” Bewildered, Hermione looked around at all of the guests that were chatting and drinking wine. They all wore dress robes, none of them with their arms showing. Being in a cooler climate, and seeing as how Wizarding society tended to be quite conservative, it hadn’t seemed unusual to Hermione that she never saw bare arms. In fact, even when the dress robes had shorter sleeves, most of the women at all the formal events were wearing long gloves. Had they all been covering this unsightly tattoo? 

“It is a time of considerable pride when a young Ophidian reaches the age of citizenship,” Slughorn told her, “and it is marked by the taking of the…well, the Mark.”

“What age is that?” she questioned him, imagining young adults crowding the tattoo shops after graduation.

“When they start school, of course,” he explained. “At the age of eleven, young witches and wizards receive their first wand in a sacred ceremony. After declaring their loyalty to King and country—or Queen, of course, as most of this generation of Ophidians pledged during Queen Merope’s reign—they receive the Mark on their arm.”

He looked with fondness at the black design on his forearm, tracing the edges of it with his fingertips. “It is an honor, yes, quite an honor to be a wizard of Ophidia.”

The cadence of his words became that of a well-told story. “You know, legend has it that in a time of dire need, Ophidia will call all of her children to her. And wherever they may be, the Mark of their loyalty, this sign of their devotion, will bring them home. To protect and to preserve. For glory, for honor, for power.”

For a moment, he seemed caught up in a memory, and then he smiled up at her, rolling his sleeve back down. “It’s not expected of non-Ophidian-born citizens. But most foreigners are running from something, seeking a safe place to practice their magic, and when they feel Ophidia accept them as a son or daughter, they are moved to accept the Mark.”

“You speak of Ophidia almost as if she were a real person,” Hermione observed.

At that, Ser Slughorn chuckled again. His eyes twinkled at her as he said, “And can you tell me you haven’t felt her presence since you’ve been here? This is not just another country, another nation of stone and soil. We are all connected, grounded into the magic of the land of our birth. The Great Lady guards us and guides us, and she’s why Ophidia is the greatest country in the world!”

His words rose at the end, causing them to be overheard by those nearest to them. A smattering of cheers and applause went up, and that started off a round of toasts to Ophidia, and then to the King and the future Queen.

Hermione laughingly partook, careful not to imbibe too much, thinking carefully about everything that she’d just learned.

When the conversations around her settled, she again turned to Ser Slughorn, who was sitting comfortably in his chair, pleasantly observing the festivity around him.

“I’ve spent copious amounts of time recently in the wonderful library at Castle Marvolo. There is so much rich Ophidian history preserved there,” she told him.

“Oh yes, oh yes.” He nodded in agreement. “Many productive hours I have spent there, researching ingredients, creating new spells. No other library like it in the world. Not since Alexandria, of course.” His expression turned sad for a moment as he thought of the scrolls lost to fire.

Patiently, Hermione brought him back around to her point. “I haven’t seen mention of the Mark of Ophidia being used in a citizenship ritual anywhere in the books that I’ve read.”

“No?” Slughorn looked a little bit confused, glancing down at the wine goblet in his hand as if it held answers. He waved his hand dismissively. “I’m sure you have only to find the right sections. Ask the librarians, they’ll be able to point you in the right direction before you have your own done.”

He spoke of her getting the Mark as if it were a given and Hermione felt a twinge of alarm. She was curious why Astoria, who had been quite thorough in preparing her for all aspects of Ophidian life, had failed to mention the possibility of taking a tattoo that clearly proclaimed one’s allegiances. She was not keen on the idea of taking on the Mark herself, but if it was the custom of all of the Ophidians, she didn’t see how she could avoid it and still be taken seriously. She resolved to check the library first thing in the morning. And while she was at it, she’d ask Astoria, too.

Deciding Ser Slughorn had told her all he could on that subject, for the moment, she changed the topic of conversation.

“You called Ophidia the Great Lady. Is there a story behind that name as well?” she asked him.

He blinked myopically at her, clearly far more into his cups than he let on. “I can’t say as I remember any story. She’s always been the Great Lady. The Great Lady of the Land. When the King and the Queen are in harmony with the Great Lady, Ophidia is blessed with great magic and prosperity. When the King and the Queen are not worthy, the Great Lady sleeps.”

He gave a snort of laughter. “Not that anyone, King or Queen, will ever deny that they are worthy. King Athanasius is the very best of kings, though. I daresay Ptolemy himself would be proud. Ophidia has had many blessings since His Majesty took the throne, though Queen Merope was a gem, as well. Yes, indeed, she was.”

He turned to look at her as if remembering why she was there. “And you, my dear girl, you are worthy. You will be a blessing for this land, driven and ambitious, and courageous, too.” He smiled at her and patted her hand with fatherly approval. Then he frowned, as if remembering something, “Not like King Athanasius’ first bride, no, no. She was lacking. Not a good choice for the wife of a King.” His face strained as if he were trying to recall further details.

Hermione felt herself freeze in her chair. “Pardon me, Ser Slughorn, what was it that you just said?”

“Eh? What was that?” he asked, looking up at her, his eyes blank.

“You spoke of the King’s bride.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” he said, blinking rapidly. He held up his goblet. “To the King’s bride!” The room toasted to Hermione’s good health again.

She didn’t wait for the cheers to subside. Quietly, she cast a Muffliato around the two of them. “You said something about the King’s first bride. What was it you were saying?”

Ser Slughorn looked very confused. “You’re the King’s first bride. And quite a search it took him to find you!”

Hermione shook her head, feeling anxiety welling up inside of her. “No, you said that King Athanasius had a bride, a different wife, who wasn’t worthy of Ophidia.”

“Did I?” He huffed at that. “Well, that doesn’t make much sense.” He stared down at his now empty cup with some consternation as if it were at fault.

“Do try to remember, Ser Slughorn,” she implored him, all too aware that it was likely futile. Whatever momentary memory had surfaced, it had immediately been buried again. She could tell he had no idea what she was talking about.

Carefully he set his glass onto the table, his expression stricken. “Begging your pardon, my lady, if I’ve said something to upset you. I’m afraid my mind has many holes in it now that I’m in my old age. Please, don’t be upset.” He wrung his hands together, one hand straying up to touch the Mark she now knew was under his sleeve. “His Majesty was so kind to trust me with your company, and now I’ve upset you. Oh dear, oh dear.”

Swallowing her irritation and trying to ignore her heart slamming in her chest, she patted his arm, reassuring him that she was not upset.

She had no qualms about lying.

Hermione had read several books about the history of the Marvolo family, even before she came to Ophidia, but certainly since. There was no way she could have missed the fact that the King had been married before. But there had been something in Ser Slughorn’s honest face that alarmed her. He truly hadn’t known what he was saying, but it wouldn’t be the first time that wine revealed truths that had been concealed.

She returned back to her suite that night with her mind whirling. So what if the King had been married before? Did she even have the right to feel hurt by that knowledge?

“Pheme,” Hermione called, as she entered her bedroom, knowing the little elf was always just around the corner. She forced her tone to a lightness she didn’t feel. “I heard a bit of castle gossip today. Perhaps you can help me figure it out.”

Pheme’s eyes lit up as they often did when they were gossiping. She loved to hear all the latest news and didn’t much care whether it was about important political alliances or whose stockings had developed a run in them. “Of course, Mistress! Pheme knows everything in the castle,” the elf boasted.

She jumped up to sit on a chair while Hermione changed for bed, her feet swinging excitedly. “Did Mistress hear something at the Sluggy Club dinner party?”

Carefully not looking at the little elf, Hermione casually said, “Yes, from Ser Slughorn himself, actually. He mentioned about King Riddle’s first wife being not particularly nice.” She paused deliberately, using her wand to whisk her shoes back to their place in the closet. “Do you happen to remember her at all?”

The silence that followed was very unusual for the energetic house-elf. Hermione glanced back to see how Pheme had reacted to her heavy-handed probe for information.

Pheme sat in the chair that was far too big for her, her eyes wide and her ears trembling. She shook her head back and forth, “No, Mistress! The King has not been married before! Ser Slughorn must have lied.” At this statement, her eyes got even wider and she clapped her tiny hands over her mouth. “No, no, Pheme did not mean to say such a thing. Ser Slughorn is a good wizard. Pheme is a bad elf.”

The little elf was shaking very hard now, casting her gaze around the room as if she were looking for something to iron her hands with. An elf in Brittania would have already caused considerable harm to herself simply for being disrespectful enough to be contradictory.

So far, Hermione had never seen a house-elf in Ophidia deliver any self-punishment. Still, she moved hastily to reassure Pheme that she did not take offense, and that she understood no disrespect was meant to Ser Slughorn.

“Perhaps,” Pheme said, suddenly, “Ser Slughorn was simply mistaken.” She nodded her head enthusiastically, looking at Hermione for confirmation. “Yes, perhaps he has just misremembered. Pheme hears that Ser Slughorn misremembers many things.”

“Perhaps,” Hermione said, noncommittally. “But will you do me a favor, Pheme?”

The elf nodded immediately, her ears perked up to hear what her Mistress wanted.

“Could you try really hard to remember if you’d ever heard of King Riddle marrying another,” Hermione asked her, “or even being betrothed to another woman? Might there have been another wedding, maybe a very quiet one? One that no one would know about?”

Pheme looked decidedly less pleased once she heard what her Mistress wanted. “Pheme has heard no such thing in all the years she has been at the castle.” Her ears drooped down quite low. “But Pheme will try to remember.” Her face turned comically studious as she thought for several moments in silence.

Hermione tried not to hold her breath. Pretending like the answer was unimportant to her was too late, she’d already upset the house-elf.

After a while, Pheme’s eyes popped open. “Pheme cannot remember anything.”

Hermione felt her hopes deflate. She didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if she hoped Pheme could suddenly recall a missing wife. Maybe it was simply Ser Slughorn misspeaking after all.

“Pheme’s memories have holes,” the elf said, drawing Hermione’s attention back to her.

“What did you say?”

“Pheme cannot remember about the King and a wife. But Pheme cannot remember enough to say yes or no. There are little holes.”

Hermione didn’t know how to respond to that. Ser Slughorn had said the same thing about missing memories, though she assumed his were due simply to old age. Was there a connection? Had someone tampered with their memories? Was that proof that the King really had been married before?

She suddenly felt it was imperative that she learn the answer to that question. It was too late to go to the library and she felt certain that she would not find what she needed on the printed page. Where could she go to find the truth?

She must have spoken out loud because Pheme suggested, “Mistress could try the Portrait Gallery! There is a family tree there.”

Of course! A magical family tree should register all those born and married into the family. Even a branch that was disowned or cut off was still recorded.

Hermione hurried back to her closet, pulling on a heavy night robe and some slippers.

“Mistress is going right now?” Pheme asked, aghast. “In her nightclothes?”

“No time like the present for us, Pheme,” she said. She didn’t want anyone to hear about her asking questions and manipulate the evidence. If anyone had heard her speaking to Ser Slughorn, or if he had said something to anyone else, she might already be too late.

“Pheme is going with Mistress?” The elf seemed pleased at the implied invitation.

“Of course, Pheme.”

Pheme was a wonderful guide, and she turned out to have a flair for subterfuge as well. They peered around every corner as they tiptoed their way through the castle. Hermione cast Disillusionment Charms on them, but her heart was still pounding as they snuck into the gallery and quietly slipped past the sleeping portraits.

Hermione noticed that Merope was still wide awake, though Tom Riddle was fast asleep. The imposing witch who was the last Queen of Ophidia seemed to stare at them as they crept down the passageway, almost as if she could see through their charms. To Hermione’s relief, if she could see them, she did not say anything.

They made it all the way down to the far end of the gallery where the Marvolo family tree was in its own little nook. It took up the entire wall, generations and generations descended—as the tree showed—from Ptolemy. There were some interesting breaks and twists, but it didn’t take long at all for her to locate the last surviving direct descendant.

Athanasius Marvolo Riddle, only child of Merope Gaunt Marvolo and Tom Riddle. Unmarried. No children.

It should have made her feel better to see the proof, but it didn’t release the ball of anxiety in her chest.

A sound from behind her caused her to whirl around, wand out. Even in the dim lighting of the gallery, she could still make out the sharp features of the man who would be her husband in just a few days’ time.

Beside him stood an elf wringing her hands. “Pheme is sorry, Mistress,” the elf whispered, making it clear who was responsible for alerting the King.

It shouldn’t have surprised her. Like everyone else, the house-elves had probably all sworn vows of allegiance ‘to King and country.’

“Thank you, Pheme, that will be all,” the King said, and Pheme dutifully Apparated away with one last sorrowful glance at Hermione.

All too aware that the King had once again caught her in her pyjamas, she watched him as he walked over to a marble bench and sat down. She noticed he left plenty of room beside him.

Neither of them spoke, though Hermione had to restrain herself from blurting out the questions that were foremost in her mind. In the silence that ensued, though, Hermione had time to progress from prickly defensiveness to self-conscious embarrassment.

With slow steps, she walked over and gingerly sat on the edge of the bench, her night robe draping to cover her feet.

Into the empty room, she said, quietly, “Ser Slughorn mentioned that you’ve been married before. I came to check your family tree, and I don’t see any record of a marriage.” She paused. “But is he—is it true?”

His eyes were unreadable as he looked at her, contemplating her words.

She thought she’d taken him by surprise, to ask him so directly. But he didn’t seem guilty or anxious as if she’d uncovered a shameful secret. She supposed kings didn’t need to feel guilty about anything they did, and were probably trained not to show anxiety.

After a moment in which he regarded her in silence, he closed the distance between them on the bench, sitting directly beside her.

The heat from his body being so close gave her a tingle that she tried to suppress, but it only intensified when he turned his dark eyes on her.

“Yes, Hermione, I have been married before.”

Hermione’s stomach fell at his admission. It was silly, but she’d really been hoping that it wasn’t true; that Slughorn was mistaken, that all the anxiety she’d felt had been irrational and easily dismissed with facts.

“It was a … very short marriage,” he offered, though she hadn’t asked for an explanation. “Erased from the tree for… important reasons.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, lamely. “And an Obliviation spell, I suppose?” The pieces fell together.

He gave one short nod. “It was necessary.”

She supposed it would be, as a royal marriage was no minor thing. It must have been a very short marriage indeed, for an Obliviation spell to erase all the evidence of it. Perhaps it was annulled. She felt stupid for letting it upset her as much as it did.

“I guess you didn’t think it was important to tell me.” Her voice sounded petulant even to her ears.

“I was. . . not going to tell you,” he confirmed. His serious tone was gentle, but unapologetic. “Whatever came before is. . . irrelevant to our own marriage.”

“Irrelevant?” she asked, irritated. “Would it be irrelevant if I told you _I_ had been married before?”

She thought she saw a flash in his eyes that might have been the seed of jealousy, or possessiveness. Her heartbeat thumped loudly in her ears.

“Were you?” he asked, in that same dangerously even tone of voice that she’d heard the night he’d addressed the Malfoy boy.

She wanted to lie and say that she had been, just to see how he’d react. Just to prove that it mattered. But with his eyes holding hers, she couldn’t. He’d probably just see through her, anyway. “No,” she admitted. Then she added, “But I could have been.”

His mouth quirked in the tiniest hint of amusement at her statement, and it irked her.

“I’m not a virgin, anyway,” she said, her chin stubbornly pushed out.

His eyes flashed again, very quickly, before his face was once more utterly bland. Then he laughed, a full and hearty sound that should have made her feel even more irritated but actually made her feel warm.

He reached out to take her hand, the one that would soon be wearing his ring. Smiling, he brought it to his mouth and gave her palm a gentle kiss that loosed all the butterflies in her stomach. His lips were soft and light, and when they moved down to the spot on the inside of her wrist, she was sure her rapid heartbeat gave her away.

“Hermione,” he said, still holding her hand to his face, forcing her to look up into his eyes. “If those things mattered, I would have included them on the invitation to the castle. I do not require a virgin.” He said the word with amusement. “And I could care less if you have been married before. Even if you were _still_ married, it would be only a tiny obstacle.” He dismissed a theoretical husband as casually as one might shoo away a pesky fly. “You are mine now, and that is all that matters.”

She shivered a little at the satisfaction in his voice.

“And are you mine, then, Athanasius?” she asked, foregoing his title for the first time.

He grinned at her, a strangely boyish thing for such a serious man. “My Greek name comes easily to your mouth, for a witch from Brittania. Perhaps because you have such a lovely Greek name as well.”

She flushed at his compliment. Actually, she’d practiced saying his name in front of the mirror, wondering what it would be like to use it in front of the man.

He kissed her hand once more before setting it down. “You can call me Tom, actually.”

“Tom?” she repeated, confused at the simple, unassuming name. “Isn’t—isn’t that your father’s name?”

He nodded with some humor at the family tree on the wall. “Been reading up on your Ophidian history, I see. Yes, it is my father’s name. But it is also my name.”

When she didn’t seem to understand right away, he continued, “It is not unusual for the name Athanasius to be changed to Tom, for the convenience of those with less clever tongues than yours.”

She blushed at his words, trying to pretend she didn’t hear the subtleties behind his words.

“My mother wanted to name me after my father, but couldn’t bear to have the next king of Ophidia have such a common name as Tom Riddle. Still, she and my father always called me Tom. It is the name I use to refer to myself, privately, when I am not required to be ‘Athanasius Marvolo, King of Ophidia.’”

She couldn’t imagine there were any times when he wasn’t every inch the King of Ophidia. Even in these quiet moments between the two of them, he didn’t act like any other men she knew.

She bit her lip before deciding to ask the question that had come to her mind. “And did your wife call you Tom, too?”

His eyes were very deep and very dark and seemed to pull her in as he faced her. Very seriously, he said, “No one has called me Tom since both of my parents crossed the veil.”

The thought that he was trusting her with something so personal, so intimate as a name, sent a lovely warmth coursing through her. How quickly she forgot the anxiety of an hour ago after only a few minutes in his company!

She was pleased to learn that there was a man underneath all that intimidating power and elegance. A man named Tom.

Feeling suddenly very bold, she reached up to trace the lines of his face. The heat of his skin enticed her to run her fingertips up his jawline, and she marveled that he let her touch him like this.

“Tom,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. There was no mistaking the fire in his dark eyes now. They burned into her as she called him by his name. She repeated her question. “Are you mine, then, Tom?”

When his lips parted to answer her, his breath against her palm made her shiver. His voice was low and gravelly and his eyes stayed intensely on hers. “I will never marry another. I have searched through the best the Wizarding World has to offer, in order to find you. Your place with me will never be challenged. There will never again be anyone else.”

The words thrilled her. She had anticipated a marriage of convenience and had hoped for one with at least respect. Since meeting the King—Tom—she had even believed her marriage might hold a measure of pleasure and even affection. But the words he said against her skin rang in her head like the vows they hadn’t spoken yet.

Here was someone she could grow with, someone who wanted _her_ exactly as she was. Someone, she was entirely sure, she could grow to love. And dare she hope, someone who _might_ love her back.

She shivered again, at the possibility of loving and being loved by the man before her.

She noticed his eyes grew impossibly darker right before his mouth came down on hers.

Fire and heat seared straight down to her belly. She couldn’t move, overwhelmed by the feel and the taste of him.

His hands were in her hair, tilting her head back so he could ravish her mouth. Helpless to resist, she opened to him, her tongue reaching out for more of whatever this was that tasted so dark and sweet.

Relentlessly he plundered, marking her as his with every stroke of his tongue, every pull of his lips.

It almost scared her how easily she relinquished possession of her own body. She met him with no resistance, just gave him what he wanted as he took and took and took.

When he finally lifted his lips from hers, she gasped, trying to pull air into her lungs. Her heart was beating so fast it couldn’t possibly be sending enough oxygen to her brain. She thought she might wobble if his hands weren’t still on her face, holding her steady.

“Wow,” was all she could think to say when she could make words again.

The darkness of his eyes lightened, and he laughed, softly depositing another kiss on her upturned lips.

“Come,” he commanded, clasping her hand in his, and raising her from the bench. “I will return you to your rooms.”

Slightly dazed, she let him lead her back. She was giddy with the feel of her hand in his. They padded through the corridor, her in her slippered feet, as if they were two lovers sneaking home.

“Oh,” she said, suddenly remembering the night of the trial. “Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

He looked at her questioningly as she spoke his full name.

“Your Destiny number is seven, after all. If you use Tom instead of Athanasius, I mean.” It wouldn’t have mattered if she had known that before, since the answer to the riddle’s reference to seven had nothing to do with Arithmancy. “Mine is seven, also,” she added, unnecessarily.

He nodded at the coincidence. “And it will still be seven even after we are married.”

She hadn’t thought of that, but some quick calculations in her head showed that he was right. “Well, perhaps we have the same destiny, then,” she said, shyly.

“Perhaps.” His voice was pleasantly agreeable as he softly rubbed his thumb over her hand.

She glanced at him as they approached the door to her suite, wondering if he might kiss her goodnight. But he simply walked in, her trailing behind him.

It was at her bedroom threshold that he stopped. The wide double-doors were ajar, though the darkness behind them made it impossible to see inside.

He stared into that darkness for several seconds before he looked back at her. “The Heart of Ophidia—the prize you won in the competition—do you carry it with you, or keep it in your room?”

“The Heart of Ophidia? Is that what it’s called?” Her brain rapidly processed that information. “It’s the elements, isn’t it? Earth, water, and air in the shape of the flame. That’s the heart’s desire: Ophidia. Magic. Belonging.” She smiled, knowing her current sentimental attitude was making her look goofy. “It’s lovely!”

She recalled his question and asked, “Is it important? Should I be guarding it better? I keep it on a shelf in the room, but ought I to be doing something else with it?”

“There is no need to guard it.” He shook his head. “It cannot be stolen from its rightful owner. But keep it close, if it ever needs to be used, you will know. Ophidia will call to you.”

“The Great Lady,” she said, solemnly, remembering the title Ser Slughorn had used.

Riddle’s eyes glittered. “Indeed.”

He made a motion as if to go, but she stopped him.

“Tom?” She noted how his dark eyes lightened when she spoke his name. “We are to be married soon. Very soon. I want you to know that I will take my vows very seriously.”

“As will I,” he said, nodding solemnly.

She didn’t know why she felt the need to speak right now. There was still a couple of days before the wedding. But this moment they were sharing seemed important, and she wanted there to be no misunderstanding in the days ahead.

“Between you and I, I just wanted to say that. . .” She paused. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m glad it’s you. I’m glad it’s me. That it’s the two of us. Together.”

He didn’t smile, like she thought he might. But he closed the distance between them until his face was once again very close to hers. She leaned in to him, closing her eyes just as she felt his lips on hers.

This second kiss was not as strong as the first. It didn’t brand her with fire, but it marked her just the same. Her soul shivered as she stood on her toes, lips and tongues and breath mingling in the air.

As they drew apart, she heard him say, the words tickling her skin, “I’m glad it’s you.”

Then he was gone, walking swiftly away. She watched him until he rounded the corner, and then walked into her bedroom, flicking the lights on as she did.

Many nights she went to bed with the shocking thought that she was going to be a Queen in just a few days.

This night, she went to bed with the lovely warm sensation that she was going to be married. She was going to be a bride, the King’s Bride. She was going to marry a man named Tom. And she was practically, nearly, almost certain that she was going to live her own love story.

She fell asleep with a smile on her face.


	17. Chapter 17

Hermione held the Heart of Ophidia, twisting it in the morning sunlight that slanted in through the windows. It was cool in her hand, even in the warmth of the light.

She shook the flame-shaped object again, watching the pebbles bounce around before settling down into a pattern on the bottom. She thought they glittered metallically, a precious mineral of some sort.

She’d been shaking and observing the pebbles in the Heart for the better part of an hour, and so far, she didn’t see any pattern she recognized, nothing repeated in such a way as to be obvious. But she felt a tingling in her fingertips that told her there was something significant about the fact that the little rounded rocks always felt like they were set down deliberately. Her intuition was rarely wrong when it was signaling this strong.

Last night she’d dreamt of a woman singing. It was high and faint, beautiful and calming. Just the sound of it made her feel powerful and whole, and she’d woken up energized and excited.

The Great Lady, Ser Slughorn had called Ophidia. It wasn’t uncommon for countries to be referred to as women, often a motherly archetype. In a country as mystical as this one however, it was likely more than just legend and folklore, or ancient custom. There may very well be a sentience, or a force that drove Ophidia, as Slughorn had suggested.

She found it fascinating to think about, and shook the object again, watching the water funnel with air bubbles and then go crystal clear. There was something so calming about it.

Last night she’d been upset. She’d been processing a lot of distressing new information, and had an emotional confrontation with her fiancé. But this morning she felt incredibly serene, like those pebbles under the water.

She was interrupted from her musings by Pheme announcing Astoria and Luna for lunch.

The first thing her friends did as they settled in, was ask about the dinner with Ser Slughorn.

“I’ve already heard several accounts about how Ser Black was quite taken with you,” Astoria announced. “He appears to have been impressed by your level-headedness. Of course, most of the things I’ve heard have had the words ‘for a Muggle-born’ added on to the end.” Astoria rolled her eyes, conveying what she thought of that sentiment.

“Well, I’ve heard quite a different rumor,” Luna said, in her sing-song voice. “I heard a rumor of the Queen running through the halls in her nightdress, holding on to the hand of the King.”

“No!” Astoria gasped in disbelief. She swiveled, looking from Luna to Hermione and bounced in her chair. “Start with that, start with that!”

Hermione colored at Astoria’s enthusiasm. The woman was clearly expecting a more salacious story than she had to tell. Although, considering what the King had revealed about his previous marriage, perhaps Astoria was correct in expecting an exciting tale.

Quickly, Hermione resolved not to mention anything about the reason that the King had come to see her. She cast a sidelong glance at Pheme, who had the slightest of a guilty look on her face, and resolved to talk to her later to remind her not to say anything about the questions she’d asked or their late-night jaunt to view the Marvolo family tree. It was the King’s secret, and obviously he had gone to great lengths to keep it very private. She was not going to spread the news around like casual gossip, even though a part of her wished to have someone else to talk to about how it made her feel.

Last night, she might have made a different choice, maybe even felt tempted to wake her friends to tell them this latest development. But today, after a night of calming dreams, she found herself inclined to keep the information just between herself and the King.

“There’s very little to tell,” she hedged, trying to think of a good reason why they would have been out together so late at night. “And we most certainly were not running. Strolling, perhaps, in my night robe that is as fancy as any ballroom dress I’ve ever owned. He was simply walking me back to my room.”

“Where were you going? Were you drunk?” Astoria asked, a fleeting concern in her eyes that their future queen was unable to hold her liquor.

“No, of course not,” Hermione protested. “And even if I was, I’m much more likely to fall asleep on the couch than to run around the castle wreaking mayhem.”

“Well,” Astoria said, reasonably, “it’s just that I’ve heard some things about Gryffindors.”

Hermione looked at Luna, who shook her head and protested, “Not from me!”  

Then Luna shrugged. “Gryffindor parties can’t hold a candle to Ravenclaw parties, anyway. So predictable and boring. If it was a Ravenclaw party, you’d be running through the hall naked, blindfolded, and reciting Arithmancy formulas while everyone else changed the configuration of the walls.”

Not knowing if she should be insulted or relieved that Gryffindor parties were boring and predictable, Hermione emphasized, “But I wasn’t drunk. I’d barely even had any alcohol, I was so busy talking with all the guests.”

“Right,” Astoria said, “so what’s this about wreaking mayhem?”

“Not a thing. I just went to look at the Riddle family tree. Talking with Ser Slughorn about the history of the Marvolo family made me curious to look at it—to—to see where my place on it would be.” That was all mostly the truth, anyway.

Astoria and Luna looked at each other as if deciding whether or not to believe her.

It had also been her first kiss with Tom, but she decided against telling them something so private. She wanted to keep it to herself for just a little longer.

She decided to distract them with a topic change. “Ser Slughorn was really quite informative. Among other things, including the Riddle family tree mural, he was telling me about the tattoo on his arm.” She looked at Astoria cautiously. “I was hoping I’d be able to ask you some questions about the Mark today.”

“The Mark?” Astoria asked, her hand automatically straying to where Hermione assumed her own tattoo was.

“What mark?” Luna asked, looking from one to the other.

In answer, and with no reluctance, Astoria rolled up her sleeve, revealing the black lines of the serpent and the skull. “The Mark of Ophidia,” she said with pride, turning her forearm so they could both clearly see the details.

“Apparently,” Hermione told her former schoolmate, “it’s common for Ophidians to get the Mark tattooed on their arms during their citizenship confirmations.”

“Oh, yes,” Astoria said, excitedly. “The age of 11 is such a milestone. Receiving our wand confirms us as witches and wizards, and receiving the Mark on our arm confirms us as children of Ophidia. Then, of course, we start school.” She traced the lines of the snake with the same reverence Hermione had observed that Ser Slughorn had shown.

“Legend has it,” Astoria continued, her voice dreamy, “that in a time of dire need, Ophidia will call all of her children to her. Wherever they may be, the Mark of their loyalty, this sign of their devotion, will bring them home. To protect and to preserve. For glory, for honor, for power.” She slid her sleeve back down over the tattoo. “I have no idea whether it will actually work that way. History shows that none have been called by the Mark since the time of Ptolemy. It could just be a pretty story, to remind children that they have a place in society.”

“You get a tattoo before you even start school?” Luna questioned, frowning. “And everyone gets it? What if someone didn’t want to get the tattoo.”

Astoria frowned, slightly insulted. “Why would anyone not want to take the Mark?”

“Aesthetic reasons,” Luna said, acerbically, causing Astoria to laugh.

“Well,” the Ophidian witch said, her expression clear again, “it’s not a requirement, anyway. I’ve seen plenty of foreigners who make their home here in Ophidia, and they don’t take the Mark.”

“How would you know?” Hermione interrupted. “Most Ophidians wear long sleeves and gloves. Can you tell when someone doesn’t have the Mark?”

Astoria had to pause to consider that. “I suppose I can. I’ve never really thought about it. I always know when I’m with someone who hasn’t taken the Mark, but I’ve never asked them to confirm it for me, so I suppose I could be wrong.” She shrugged. “Does it matter?”

Hermione sighed. “Well, as a foreigner and a Muggle-born, I suppose I’d like to know whether taking the Mark is a significant facet of Ophidian culture, and whether having the tattoo—or not having it—is going to affect the respect that Ophidians have for me and whatever policies I may enact.”

Astoria raised her finger to make a point. “Actually, I do know for sure of one person who never took the Mark. The Queen’s Consort, Tom Riddle. He was from Brittania, and though he married Queen Merope, there isn’t any evidence that he was expected to take the Mark. And the portrait in the gallery often has his sleeves rolled up, so you can see that there isn’t a Mark.” She looked at the others. “So there’s a precedent for a Consort, as a foreigner, not to be required to bear the Mark.”

“Why do you not refer to Tom Riddle as the King? Why do you always call him the Consort?” Hermione asked, just realizing what had been bothering her about the term of address.

“Well,”Astoria began, before she stopped, having to rethink her words. “I guess, because the King was more of a King in name, rather than in duty. Queen Merope ruled the country, she was the Marvolo to wear the Crown. King Tom was…her husband. The Consort.”

“So, am I going to be a Queen, or a Consort?” Hermione wondered aloud, suddenly feeling anxiety that she was going to live the life of a figurehead, her only purpose in life to smile at events of state and dance with ambassadors from other countries.

The idea made her sick to her stomach, but quickly, she remembered Tom’s words to her—the way he talked to her as if he was expecting her to be a partner, both in marriage and in rulership.

“I suppose,” Astoria said, slowly, “it depends on you. King Tom did very little in politics, and seemed content to let Queen Merope lead the country. You don’t have to be the same.”

“If I bore the Mark,” Hermione said, “would it be easier to expect that I was going to be actively involved in the ruling of this country?”

“Yes,” Astoria said, with only the slightest hesitation. “Your loyalty would be unquestionable, and no one could argue that you didn’t have the best interests of Ophidia at heart at all times.”

“Hermione, you’re not seriously considering this, are you?” Luna protested.

“As it happens, I am,” Hermione said. “If it will show the country that I take my position and responsibility to the community seriously, then I think I have to consider it.”

“You are Brittanian,” Luna said, softly. “You would deny your own heritage?”

There was silence while Hermione tried to put together the thoughts that had been swirling in her head ever since the dinner party the night before.

“Brittania-born,” she finally said. “I do not have to deny my heritage to embrace a new life.” She was reminded of Riddle’s words telling her that though she was Muggle-born, she was never really a Muggle. Strangely, just as it had caused very little pain to let go of her future as a Muggle, it was almost painless to think of foregoing a future in Brittania.

Her future was here in Ophidia. She recalled the voice that had sung to her, calm and serene.

“Brittania-born,” she repeated, her voice stronger. “But a Daughter of Ophidia, nonetheless.”

Astoria nodded, her face serious but pleased.

Luna’s expression, however, was inscrutable, and she did not respond to Hermione’s assertion.

Hermione knew her friend would need a little time to adjust to the idea. She was feeling quite radical at the moment.

“How is the tattoo done?” Hermione asked. “I assume there’s a spell.”

“Yes,” Astoria confirmed, after a sidelong glance at her friend who still seemed less than pleased at the conversation. “Twice a year, there’s a ceremony. All those of age come before the Queen—well, the King now—to swear their allegiance. Those who emigrate from other countries tend to be very few, and they probably have separate ceremonies at the time they swear their allegiance. The King places his wand on your arm, and performs the _Morsmordre_.”

“Morsmordre?” Hermione thought back to her ancient language lessons. “Death. And Biting? To bite death?”

Astoria laughed. “I suppose so. I’ve never thought about it. I’m sure it indicates loyalty till death, of course. The bite probably refers to a serpent’s strike.” She straightened her back with pride. “For someone to challenge Ophidia is to court death. A snake will strike so fast you won’t even see it.”

Her hand shot out like a snake to grab Hermione’s arm, and she jumped.

“It only needs to bite you once,” Astoria continued. “And before you’ve even fully comprehended what has happened, you’ve already crossed the Veil. Ophidia has not been to war in centuries. It has not needed to. But a serpent quietly minding its own business doesn’t cease being dangerous.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hermione said, wryly. She looked down at her arm. Astoria had grabbed her right where her Mark would go, if she was going to get one.

She imagined the ugly black lines across her pale skin and grimaced.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)


	18. Chapter 18

After her friends left, Hermione spent quite a while thinking about whether she wanted to take the Mark. It was towards the end of the afternoon when she made her decision.

“Pheme,” she called the house-elf to her. “Do you know where the King is at, and when he might be available to meet with me?”

The little elf was wearing something that almost looked like Hermione’s Muggle jeans, a sight that made Hermione stifle a laugh.

“Pheme will let the King know that Mistress wishes to speak with him!” she declared in her little high voice.

“It’s all right if he’s busy,” Hermione said, “just let Ioke or Ser Avery know that when he’s done for the day, if he could come find me. I might be in the library.”

The elf Disapparated so quickly on her mission that Hermione wasn’t sure she’d heard her.

The King—Tom—probably had a lot of legal and political issues to take care of, especially with their wedding day so close. She doubted he’d be free until well after the sun went down.

She decided she’d take a quick bath first. Ritual cleansing seemed like a sound idea when you were about to have an important ceremony.

And with Pheme gone, it gave her the chance to prepare her bath herself. She always tried to do things on her own, not being comfortable ordering the house-elf around, but also not wanting to offend her by not allowing her to help.

Hermione quickly filled the ornate tub that sat in the middle of the enormous washroom with hot water and bubbles and settled in for a quick scrub. The light floral scent of the bath salts relaxed her, and made her think of the water and the pebbles in the Heart that she’d been staring at all morning.

“Well, if I’d known you were waiting here for me, I would have come even faster.”

The amused voice startled her out of her thoughts and she quickly sat upright before remembering how exposed she was in the tub. She shifted to dip back well below the line of the bubbles. “Yo-your Majesty!” she squeaked.

At his raised eyebrow, she corrected herself. “Tom, I mean.”

The smile he gave her was genuine, and looked very much like the one he’d given her last night, when she’d called him by his name.

“Tom, what are you doing in my washroom?” she asked, trying to remain dignified even though she was mentally calculating just how long the bubbles in the tub would last.

“I believe you summoned me,” Tom said, far too cheerfully.

“No, no,” Hermione denied, watching with alarm as he removed his heavy outer robes in the warm, humid air, and _Accio_ ’d a chair for himself. “I would never presume to summon the King. I wanted to speak with you when you had a little time free.”

“First off,” he began, placing the chair close to the tub and settling comfortably in it, “feel free to summon me to your bath whenever you like. I find the possibility to be particularly invigorating that whenever the Queen calls, I _might_ find her naked in her bath. That thought alone would certainly liven up tedious meetings such as the one you just rescued me from.”

His words made Hermione blush madly. Grasping at something to do to distract her from the dark eyes that were intent on her, she scrubbed at her arms. Maybe if she finished quickly, he’d be forced to leave while she got dressed. Although, what if he didn’t?

She dropped the soap, and then squeaked again, as she casually tried to find it in the bottom of the tub.

“Secondly,” Tom continued, “that’s not what I was told. I was informed by a very agitated Ioke that Miss Pheme had been _most_ insistent that Her Ladyship wanted to see the King on a matter of _utmost_ importance. Even the slight, but necessary, delay of a few minutes left my elf quite distressed as he’d apparently promised—unwisely, I might add—that I would be delivered posthaste to the presence of the future Queen.” His tone indicated that he found the entire situation to be hugely entertaining.

Hermione wished her house-elf could have been a bit more circumspect in her request. Or that she’d thought to wait for a confirmation or an appointment before hopping into a bath. She hadn’t thought he would have walked right in, or that Pheme would have let him without at least announcing His Royal Majesty’s presence in the washroom.

Speaking of house-elves, she looked around the room, suddenly concerned that Ioke—or worse, Ser Avery—was standing on guard nearby.

Tom saw her sudden movement to cover up further, and he winked at her. “No need for that, it’s just me.”

“Yes, well,” Hermione paused, unsure of herself. “I did want to speak with you. That is, I was hoping to talk about something important.” She looked around the washroom. “Perhaps if you waited for me to—”

“I’m perfectly happy to talk here,” he said, taking in the surroundings. “It’s warm, comfortable, relaxing.” He glanced at the hair piled high up on her head. “Would you like me to wash your hair?”

“No!” she said quickly, the water sloshing as she pressed backwards against the edge of the tub. She couldn’t help shivering at the thought of Tom running his fingers through her hair, though. “My hair—it’s…particular,” she finished lamely.

He grinned at her, as if knowing that she was making an excuse to avoid his touch, but he didn’t make any further teasing suggestions and he didn’t move any closer than he already was. Instead, he said, “Well, perhaps you could tell me what important subject requires my attention. I am at your service, my lady.”

She had expected to have this conversation elsewhere, certainly with clothes on, at the very least. She’d meant to be dignified—regal, even.

But if she was going to be a Queen, she could certainly be one whilst naked in the tub as easily as anywhere else. She gathered her courage and tried to pretend like they were merely in her sitting room.

“The Mark of Ophidia,” she began, looking carefully at the King’s face to get a clue as to how he felt. “Ser Slughorn enlightened me about the fact that all Ophidians have the Mark tattooed onto their arm.”

Tom nodded slowly. “Yes, that’s right.”

When he didn’t say anything more, Hermione took a deep breath and got to the point. “I want to take the Mark.”

He leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, observing her very carefully. “You know that it is not necessary in order to rise to the position that will be conferred on you by our wedding?”

“I am aware of this fact. I understand your father did not have the Mark of Ophidia,” she said, hoping her sources were correct.

Tom’s eyes seemed to cloud, and he confirmed very softly, “No, he did not.”

“I want—I want—” she started, but she couldn’t seem to finish. Suddenly there were several things she wanted, and all of them wanted to come out of her mouth at the same time. Love, family, purpose, influence, justice, progress. This man as her husband. She shook her head, focusing on the mound of bubbles in front of her, and tried to remember what she had been planning to say.

“I want to be more than a Consort,” she finally finished. “I want to be a Queen that the Ophidians can respect, can trust, can believe in.”

“And you think the Mark will give you that?” he questioned.

“No,” she answered firmly. “I will have to prove my worth. But I think if I take the Mark—pledge my allegiance to Ophidia—that I will have a larger window of opportunity to do so. And one less reason for anyone to object to my place at your side.”

“I see,” he said, carefully. “And when would you like to take the Mark? You know that only the current King or Queen can perform the spell?”

Hermione nodded. “Before the wedding ceremony. I’d like it to be a quiet statement during the wedding that the Mark can be clearly seen on my arm.” She raised the arm in question, the space that would be covered with the tattoo currently dripping wet with a layer of bubbles. She ignored the incongruity, though she thought she caught the slightest twitch of Riddle’s lips. “But I don’t want to have a big ceremony as if to exaggerate the importance of this one tattoo above everyone else’s.”

He nodded again. “A clever choice. A cunning one that will not go unnoticed or unappreciated by the people of Ophidia.”

“I had hoped—” Hermione licked her lips, dropping her arm back into the warm bath water, before starting again. “I had wanted to discuss with you the possibility of doing it as soon as possible. Today. Now, even.”

For several long moments, he considered her. “You’re certain this is what you want? You will forever be tied to this land.”

“Yes,” she said, without hesitation.

At her words, he retrieved his wand from an inner pocket of his robes. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him using it, as he was quite proficient at wandless magic. It was long and had a wicked-looking curved point just off the handle.

That reminded her of a question she’d forgotten to ask Astoria. “Wait. Does it hurt?”

“Would it change your mind if it did?” he asked.

“No, of course not,” she snapped. “I’d just like to be prepared.”

She saw the ghost of a smile on his face again. “Rumor has it that the more devoted one is to country and King, the less discomfort one feels.”

Recognizing his non-answer to her question, she asked, “And is the rumor true?”

“It is not. Though it does suit me to allow people to believe it. The _Morsmordre_ can cause a significant amount of pain, as it attaches to a witch or wizard’s magical core. But a skillful and careful practitioner can minimize the pain significantly.”

Hermione thought this over, imagining generations of school-age children undergoing such a serious spell. She scooted a fraction closer to him, the water making gentle waves around her. “And you are skillful and careful?”

He smiled at that. “I am. I put slightly less effort into it for the refugees, as they frequently see legitimacy in pain. And pain can strengthen the Mark, in some cases. But the children rarely experience any discomfort.”

“Was yours painless, then?” she asked, thinking the Queen must have surely expended considerable care on her only son.

He looked at her and then he reached down to his sleeve, carefully rolling it up till it was past his elbow.

She leaned a bit past the edge of the tub to see his Mark and was shocked to see the lines were thick and dark, a black so deep she thought it could be an abyss.

“I screamed for an hour,” he said.

Hermione gasped, covering her mouth in horror, not even noticing the sudden slight taste of soap on her tongue. She thought again of the Malfoy boy writhing under the Cruciatus. She imagined a serious-minded boy of 11 with raven hair and dark eyes, and the picture of him screaming in pain brought tears to her eyes.

He appeared unmoved by her concern. “My mother wanted me to be aware, to be familiar with how much pain could be caused if I was careless. The _Morsmordre_ is not simply a vanity, it’s a binding spell, and she said I needed to fully understand the severity of it.”

“That’s terrible,” she said, unable to keep from reaching out to his arm. Her hands were wet, but he didn’t seem to mind. She traced a finger along the inky black lines that seemed almost to shift under her touch. “It doesn’t hurt anymore?”

“No,” he said, his voice hoarse. “No, it never hurt again. And as a result, I am very careful.”

She thought the bubbles might not be covering her as much in this position, but she didn’t want to interrupt the moment to fidget with them.

Thinking about his experience, she asked, “Should mine be done the same way, do you think?”

“No, Hermione,” he said, his hand coming up to touch her face as it leaned over the edge of the tub. “For you, painless. I would never hurt you.”

She smiled at him, leaning into his touch, thinking how his hand was warmer even than her bathwater.

“Give me your arm, Hermione,” he whispered.

A stream of air quickly dried off her arm, and she rested it on the edge of the tub as he leaned over, pressing the tip of his wand against her pale skin.

An intense look of concentration crossed his face as he muttered words under his breath that Hermione couldn’t hear. She thought for a moment his eyes seemed to brighten, to glow, drawing her into the darkness at the heart of that light.

Then she felt his hands on her face again, right before she slid into a kiss so warm and light she thought she might float away. For a moment, she forgot everything—the bath, the Mark, the wedding—everything except the feel of his mouth as it caressed hers.

Where with their first kiss he had been rough, taking, plundering—this time she felt an incredible giving. The sweetness of it tingled all through her limbs, and she sighed into his mouth.

Her arms tried to come up to wrap around his neck, not caring at all that she was still wet and naked, but her left arm was weighed down by an intense pressure as if tied down with bands of heat.

Slowly, he pulled back, her lips following his as her eyes fluttered open. For a brief, timeless instant, she felt a bright thread of connection between them.

Gently, he released her back into the water, and drew her arm to where they could both look at it.

The serpent and skull were etched vividly on her skin, but the design was like no other she’d seen before. Where most of the Marks in the books and state flags had heavy and dark lines, the figures on her arm were drawn with very fine detail. Dozens of tiny lines crisscrossed to form the snake twined around the skull, an intricate pattern of scales detailed all along its length. The skull itself seemed a bare outline, spiderlike cross-hatchings giving it shadow and depth. It was somehow delicate, ethereal, beautiful.

She looked up at him in time to catch the look of confusion and wonder that flitted across his face.

“I take it you’ve never performed the _Morsmordre_ like that before,” she said, grinning up at him.

“No,” he admitted. “Nor likely ever will again.”

His words and the implication behind them thrilled her. She tried to recover the equilibrium she’d lost when he’d kissed her, and said, flippantly, “Well, it was certainly successful at being painless, so that’s worth knowing.”

“Yes, but I have no intention of kissing any school children in order to spare them pain.”

She laughed, playfully splashing a little water his way. “I should hope not.”

He leaned over to kiss her again, and she tilted her head up, sighing again at the gentleness of his touch. “I’ll wait outside,” he said against her lips. “Unless you want me to wash your hair, after all.”

She almost said yes, but couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

* * *

Pheme had been very excited about Hermione’s new tattoo, complimenting her effusively on how beautiful the Mark looked on her skin. But when Pheme wanted to choose a gown with shorter sleeves to show it off, Hermione told her she was hoping to wait until the wedding to reveal it to others.

The more common long sleeves hid the tattoo throughout the evening meal in the Hall, and Hermione was careful not to fidget with her sleeves or trace the design under them. She was constantly aware of it, though, and had to make a conscious effort not to slide the sleeve back just to look at it once more.

At one point, she caught Astoria’s eye from across the table, and the other woman looked at her thoughtfully. She seemed puzzled, and Hermione remembered that she’d said it was not uncommon to be able to recognize when in the presence of someone who did not bear the Mark. Perhaps she had already noticed that Hermione was now pledged to serve Ophidia.

Hermione hoped that no one else noticed the change just yet.

Curious, as to whether she would have this ability, she set her fork down and concentrated on the phantom tingling she thought she still felt in her arm. She tried to see if she could tell if anyone else at the table didn’t have the Mark. For a brief moment, she thought she felt the tiniest of a void, like a hole in a piece of fabric, coming from Luna’s end of the table. But the sensation was gone, and Hermione wasn’t certain if she’d imagined it, knowing full well that Luna was not an Ophidian.

Looking back up, she noticed that Astoria was still watching her, so she smiled to reassure her, and Astoria’s response was a sly wink and a pleased grin.

After supper, the King asked Hermione for the pleasure of her company on a walk about the castle. She didn’t hesitate to accept, admitting to herself that she was beginning to crave time with him more and more.

They wandered through some of the courtyards, enjoying the pleasant evening air, as Tom told her about some of the more esoteric Ophidian customs.

When he told her about the training he’d received from his mother, Hermione remembered that she still hadn’t been back to the Portrait Gallery to make good on her intention to speak again with Tom Riddle, who had been so pleased to meet her.

To tell the truth, her interactions with the Queen’s portrait had made her uneasy, and so she’d been putting off the visit. But with the wedding just around the corner, and with her fiancé at her side, she thought it might be the best time for a visit before she was officially crowned as the new Queen, so she suggested a visit to the gallery.

Unlike before, Merope spotted them immediately and watched them carefully as they made progress down the long gallery, her expression calculating. Tom Sr, on the other hand, seemed nearly oblivious to their existence until they were finally standing in front of the simple silver frames.

“Why, Miss Granger! How happy I am to see you again! When I heard the news, I had told Merope it was surely just a matter of time before you came back to visit with us. Didn’t I say so, dear heart?”

The Queen smiled indulgently at her husband. “Yes, my love, you did indeed.” Her critical eye took in Hermione’s attire, alighting on the arm that was held through the King’s own.

Whether the Queen was simply noticing the closeness of the two before her, or whether she was actually aware of the tattoo that now lay across Hermione’s skin, she hummed a satisfied sound. “I am so pleased to see you again, little one. How wonderful it was to hear that you had won the contest. You must be very clever.”

Hermione attempted to smile demurely, and then remembered that she’d forgotten to curtsy again. Hastily, she dipped her knees, barely refraining from grimacing at the way she’d forgotten most of Astoria’s careful lessons. As she straightened, she said, “Your Majesties, I am honored to be standing before you now. I was truly fortunate to have been chosen from among all the Suitors as the next Queen of Ophidia.”

The portrait of Tom scoffed loudly. “Pish-posh! If I know my son, fortune had nothing to do with it! He wanted the cleverest witch, and by Merlin, he found her. You must have been quite the impressive sight.”

“That she was,” the King agreed. “Most impressive.”

He placed Hermione’s arm back in his, and the move did not go unnoticed by the Queen. Her eyes sparked with something dangerous, and the way the corners of her lips turned upwards left a queasy feeling in Hermione’s stomach.

“Truly, little one, you are ever so much stronger than I had thought.” Queen Merope spoke to Hermione but smiled widely at her son. “A true blessing for Ophidia. And for its King.”

Hermione looked up at the man beside her, noting that the glimpse of fondness she had been used to seeing in his expression was conspicuously absent.

Instead, he stared at his mother impassively. “Ophidia has long been blessed in the Kings and Queens that have served the Great Lady.”

“Yes, we have always done our duty,” the Queen said. “It is the privilege of House Marvolo. The legacy of Ptolemy.” She beamed down at her unsmiling son.

The tension in the air had suddenly grown thick, and seemed to crackle with energy. Uncertain as to the reason, Hermione offered, “House Marvolo is a wonderful noble house, and it will be the honor of my lifetime to join my name to it. I can assure you both that I will do my very best to do live up to that incredible privilege.” She might have perhaps been too effusive, but the situation seemed to call for an acknowledgement of her upcoming rise in social and political station.

The Prince Consort nodded his head effusively. “Of course, you will! As if you would give us anything less.” He smiled endearingly at her. “I’m _ever_ so excited that you will be here at the castle permanently, so we can exchange stories of our homeland whenever we please.”

Conscious of the Queen’s gaze still on her, Hermione said, “Actually, my lord, Brittania will always be the country of my birth, but Ophidia is going to be my homeland. I will make my future here, and try to do right by my new country and my new people.” She gave Tom—her Tom—a small smile. “And, of course, my new husband.”

“Oh, just so, just so.” The portrait accepted the correction with good humor.

Queen Merope’s voice, however, snapped out like a hiss. “Do you serve the Great Lady, Muggle-born?”

Though she wasn’t expecting the sharpness of the question, she was prepared with her answer. “I do, Your Majesty.” She wondered whether she should mention about the voice she heard singing in her dreams. Instead, she rolled up her sleeve, so that the Queen could glimpse the tattoo that rested there. “My loyalty is with Ophidia—and to its King.”

“Excellent,” the Queen said, relaxing her pose, her eyes very bright. “Your power will be an excellent complement to my Son.”

Hermione tried to smile back, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the Queen’s words were somehow less than complimentary.

Tom Riddle Sr, on the other hand, was entirely sincere in his gushing observations. “My pride, my joy! My only son, the fruit of my dearest love. How it warms my heart to see you take a bride! May you be as happy together as my Merope and I ever were!”

“How could we not, with such an example before us?” was the King’s brittle reply.

And though the Prince Consort beamed, and the Queen smiled with glee, their expressions did not fill Hermione with the warmth one would expect.

Later that night, as Hermione sat on her bed and reflected on the day, she decided that she would do her best to avoid another conversation with the portrait of the Queen until after the wedding. There was too much she did not know about the Queen and her interest in her, and she did not have the time to figure it out.

She shook the Heart of Ophidia and observed once again the pebbles arranging themselves on the bottom as the water settled, an action she’d been repeating periodically in the hour since the King had returned her to her rooms.

Something nagged at the back of her mind. It was stronger now than it had been in the light of day, but she was too exhausted to try to puzzle it out.

She set the Heart of Ophidia back on its shelf, closing the glass doors carefully before returning to bed.

In the pitch blackness of her room, she lay awake, slowly tracing the delicate lines of the snake she could feel etched on her arm. She wondered if she would have dreams of the singing woman again. But as she drifted off to sleep, it was to the memory of the feel of the King’s lips on hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Ariel Riddle for the moodboard/collage! (Hermione's wedding dress is more like the dress in the cover art on Chapter 1, this just gives us a lovely feel for these special wedding chapters.)

 

   

Pheme had outdone herself.

Hermione had wanted a wedding dress that was elegant and simple, but she hadn’t been allowed to choose. Actually, she hadn’t even been allowed to look. When she’d dared to approach Steward Aidos about the wedding preparations, she’d been given a huffy look and questioned reproachfully on whether or not she trusted the House Steward to make all the necessary arrangements.

Deciding it was the better part of valor to let the Steward arrange things as she saw fit, Hermione was reassured by Astoria’s assertions that they could always magically alter the dress to something she was more comfortable with. In the end, though, they hadn’t had to change a single thing.

When Pheme had levitated the huge mass of delicately embroidered fabrics into the room after Hermione had her ceremonial cleansing bath, Hermione had felt a brief moment of fear.

But looking at herself in the mirror, covered in miles of the most beautiful pale champagne-colored lace, she decided that if there had ever been a gown to make a peasant feel like a queen, this was it.

The heavy fabric shimmered the palest golds and silvers under the lights, and it moved gracefully along with her with every step she took. The matching cloak was lined with soft, luxurious satin, but Pheme refused to let her put the hood up.

The little elf had perched atop the very highest stool in order to carefully set each of Hermione’s beautiful curls into an elegant loose twist. Wearing the hood would cover up all of her hard work.

Pheme had also done something to the dress to make it weightless. It should have been heavy, with a small fortune in jewels—what Hermione hoped were crystals, but were probably diamonds—sewn in intricate designs the entire length of it. Instead, it was soft and light and Hermione rather felt like it was a dress she could dance all night in.

The elf claimed she’d done nothing to Hermione’s skin but give it a bit of a glow, but the woman that looked back at her in the mirror was regal and beautiful and Hermione knew it couldn’t have been just the dress.

Pheme had beamed up at Hermione, having shrunk the stool back down to a normal size. “Steward Aidos had wanted silver to match the Silver Crown, but Pheme heard His Majesty say he liked Mistress in golds, and Pheme thinks this color looks the most beautiful with Mistress’s rosy skin and dark hair.” So saying, the little elf had taken a  moment to sigh in pleasure at her handiwork.

The sigh had given way to a sudden outpouring of tears. When questioned, the little elf had wailed about how Mistress was going to become Queen, and Pheme could never be honored enough to serve the Queen, and Aidos would make her go back to guiding foreign guests around the castle.

“Mistress will not forget Pheme?” she sobbed into Hermione’s train, the tears magically dissipating before they could leave watermarks on the fabric.

It was Astoria who picked the little thing up. “Pheme, Steward Aidos has trusted you to serve Her Ladyship as she prepares for her wedding day—the most important day of her entire life! I’m sure you have nothing to fear about where you will serve after the wedding.”

Pheme had sniffled and looked up at Hermione with hopeful eyes.

Though it galled Hermione to encourage such a subservient attitude, she said, “You are such a help to me, Pheme, I wouldn’t dream of turning you away just because I have a new title.”  She knelt the tiniest bit, to bring her face closer to the elf’s, and added, solemnly, “In a land where I have few allies and fewer friends, I will always treasure the help and the support of someone I can trust.”

Pheme had bawled even harder then, tugging on her ears, but the smile on her face made it clear she was very pleased at the kind remarks.

As Hermione stood in that magnificent gown in front of thousands of the highest-ranking nobles of Ophidia, in a Great Hall that had been magically extended and brilliantly decorated, she reflected on the truth of her statement.

Truly, she had very few friends in her new country. The quickness of the wedding ceremony had made it very difficult to arrange for any of her Brittanian friends to make the arrangements to travel internationally, and what she wouldn’t give to have her two very best friends in the audience. She wasn’t even certain all of her owls had been received, as she had yet to hear from anyone she had written to.

Luna would soon be returning home, and she had promised to check in on Harry and the Weasleys, and also to bring some personal letters to her parents.  In them, Hermione promised to come home to visit and to explain further, as soon as she could possibly make the arrangements. She knew her parents would be terribly sad to have missed such an important event in their daughter’s lives.

But being Muggles, they had missed many important events. Just another casualty of Hermione’s life as a witch.

Astoria had promised to remain in Ophidia for several more months. Her new status as one of the Queen’s closest advisors was enough to temporarily overcome her wanderlust and her desire for adventure. The influence of the Greengrasidi family had increased enormously in the last three weeks, and Ser Greengrasidi had been overheard to say that his youngest daughter was by far the one he was most proud of.

Rumor had it that even the Malfoy family had deigned to hint at the possibility of a marriage alliance between their houses. Astoria had scoffed at the idea, much to Hermione’s relief. She still planned to go out and see the world and was ready to hare off to Sweden in search of fantastic beasts, once Hermione was more settled into her new role.

And that would leave Hermione with only…the King—her Tom.

She chanced a glance at the handsome man standing next to her. His ceremonial black dress robes were the finest wool, with intricate designs stitched all over them in a light golden color that matched her dress. Like the furniture in her suite, Hermione suspected the designs were actually runes, as she could nearly feel the power emanating from him though he was merely standing at her side.

On his head was a thin, silver circlet, showing up bright against the dark ebony of his hair.  

He caught her quick look, and she thought she saw the hint of a smile from him, the slightest softening of his solemn expression.

She wondered if he was reading her mind, after all, as she imagined his expression said that if he was the only ally she had in the entire country, it would be enough.

Their hands were clasped, placed on the marble pedestal in front of them as they faced the extremely large audience that had gathered to witness their union, and he gave her palm the slightest squeeze.

Not caring about the audience that was watching them closely, or what part of the ancient ritual the priest was speaking, she smiled fully up at him and clasped his hand tighter, before trying to return her attention to the ceremony.

It was mostly in Greek, and though Hermione had done enough research to know what was happening, she couldn’t stop her mind from wandering off.

She looked at their hands. On the same pedestal were the ritual offerings to the gods and the goddesses for their blessing on their union. In addition to the locks of their hair that lay together, the Heart of Ophidia stood in the center, representing the Great Lady.

Since having the Mark of Ophidia placed on her arm, Hermione had found herself drawn more and more often to this token. She’d taken to removing it from the shelf at night and shaking it to watch the pebbles float in the water. Sometimes she’d spend so long staring at it, wondering what it was and why she sometimes felt that hum of power from it, that she’d forget to go to sleep and would stay up long into the night. As the entire country seemed to run late, her habit of sleeping well into the morning was not considered at all unusual. She kept her drapes drawn while she slept so the sun wouldn’t wake her.

Her dreams were full of wispy shadows that she couldn’t remember in the morning light.

She stared into the water, noting how the rocks glinted as the light bounced off tiny metallic flakes. The sound of a woman singing tickled at her memory.

Once again, she lost track of the time, and suddenly she felt a warmth spiral up from where her hands were held by the King’s.

She gasped. Beside her, she heard Tom take a deep breath as well. As she looked at him, she thought she saw his eyes flash with light. The ceremony was complete, and the magic flowing through them was the evidence of their union.

She didn’t feel any different. Slightly _less_ , perhaps, like she’d just expended a lot of energy. She took several deep breaths to compensate for the disorienting feeling, as the audience applauded, trying not to blink too rapidly into the blinding flashes from the photographers.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Steward Aidos standing off to the side, resplendent in her own gown, also black, with the Mark of Ophidia and the crest of House Marvolo on each shoulder as a sign of her office.

The slight frown on the Steward’s face forced Hermione to recall the strict instructions she’d been given for the next portion of the ceremony. The wedding completed, the King was now to crown his new Queen.

So, she turned towards her new husband as the priest left and the pedestal was removed. She just remembered to grab the Heart, it’s heavy weight feeling very comfortable in her hands. She felt little pulses, as of electricity, and the Heart felt warm to her, but she wasn’t sure if it was simply her nerves.

The wedding was important, and she was sure it would hit her fully much later that she was married and had a husband. But it was this simple coronation that was going to make her a Queen and give her authority in the land.

It was everything Hermione wanted: a purpose, the ability to do good, a partner she could trust. Her heart beat incredibly fast as she took the steps towards her husband.

As the King was several inches taller, the Steward had decided it wasn’t necessary for her to kneel, which was good because Pheme would have wailed about crushing her dress.

Steward Aidos stood beside the King, a small black-clad figure in his shadow. In her arms was a pillow, also black. She held it up high, trying to mask her excitement with an expression of appropriate solemnity.

“Hermione Jean Granger, once of Brittania,” Tom began. She still wasn’t entirely used to the shiver she got down her back whenever he said her name. “The Mark on your arm now declares you a proper daughter of Ophidia. Your name, now Hermione Riddle, declares that you are my wife, a Consort to the King.” Taking the circlet from the pillow held by the Steward, he said, “This Silver Crown now declares you a servant to the people, a judge of the realm, a guardian of the land and of the Great Lady—a Queen of Ophidia.”

In answer, she repeated the formal words she had been instructed to say. “I accept this honor and this responsibility, to be a Daughter of the land, a Mother to the people, a Wife and partner to the King, and a Guardian of the Great Lady.”

Where she hadn’t so much as trembled during her wedding vows, her voice shook as she bowed her head so he could gently place the circlet over her curls. Hermione was sure that somewhere Pheme was sighing in relief that her elf-magic had held up.

Turning to face the crowd, she felt something inside her align and blend. A warmth spread all through her, bright and good and exciting, and the feel of it bubbling inside, filling her, made her laugh in delight. The sound was lost in the cheering of the crowd, but she grinned up at her new husband just as he covered her mouth with his own.

For the briefest moment, as her King kissed his Queen for the first time, and that wave of wonder encompassed them both, everything else was drowned out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Ariel Riddle, once again, for this lovely moodboard/collage.

Hermione had been right about the dress. It was very light, and once the train had been magically shortened, she really could dance in it all night. At least, she could if people didn’t keep stopping them every few turns to try to ingratiate themselves with the new Queen while also trying to get a few minutes of the King’s attention.

Tom was very patient with all the well-wishers who interrupted them as they waltzed their way around the floor. He agreed with everyone who effusively complimented his beautiful bride, flashing them a charming smile and shooting Hermione an indulgent look.

One particularly cunning citizen made sure to compliment her intellect and her magical prowess. Hermione made sure to give him her best smile for recognizing her value was not simply in her appearance.

When the wizard observed that watching her solve the riddle must have been a sight to behold, Tom had grinned at her and only said, drolly, “Indeed it was, Ser Rookwood. Positively _eye_ -opening.”

She laughed at his subtle reference to the oculus and the careless way she’d blasted the glass apart, and she thanked Ser Rookwood for his kind words.

Several of the guests Hermione recognized from her jaunts in Vertic Alley, and she enjoyed seeing their faces light up when she remembered them all by name. But when they tried to give her more gifts—“Oh, just tokens really!”—Tom just waved them away towards the house-elves who were gathering colorfully wrapped packages into a big pile on a large table.

It pleased Hermione that Tom kept her hand in his for the whole night. There was a lovely low thrumming in her veins whenever he touched her, something that clicked, like a key turning in a lock, like the feeling when the last piece of a puzzle was put into place. It made her feel giddy, a bit silly, and from the uncommonly free expression on Tom’s face, she imagined he felt the same. She hoped so.

The only time he gave her up, reluctantly, was when Ser Slughorn came pressuring her for a dance.

“Now, now, no excuses, m’boy, you’ll have her the rest of the night! I just want the one dance!”

So, Hermione had let him parade her around the dance floor, laughing at his enthusiasm. He was already in his cups, so he was noticeably off the beat, but Hermione didn’t mind.

During their last turn around the dance floor, Hermione spotted Lady Carrow standing next to Tom, a coquettish look on her round face.

The unpleasant woman laughed and lightly hit Tom on the arm in a flirtatious manner. Her far too casual behavior towards the King made Hermione grit her teeth in annoyance.

Did the woman not recognize when she had lost?

To his credit, Tom appeared entirely unmoved.

Turning back to her partner, Hermione finished her dance and then let Ser Slughorn escort her back to the King’s side. She was just in time to catch the end of their conversation.

“Of course, you have my full devotion,” the noblewoman said, her eyes implying that there was much more available to him if he should so choose.

“Lady Carrow,” Hermione greeted her, smiling coldly as she came up beside Tom. She placed one hand possessively on her husband’s arm. “I’m so pleased to hear you say that. I’ll be sure to remember it.” With a slightly suggestive tilt of her head, she added, “My memory is very good, so I’m certain I won’t forget what you’ve said.”

By the way Lady Carrow’s fake smile faltered a bit, Hermione assumed she heard the veiled threat and did not misunderstand the reference to their previous conversations. There was the tiniest flash of anger in the woman’s eyes before she nodded at the couple as if in acknowledgement, and gathered her skirts as if to leave.

The King’s next words stopped her. “Your words do you honor, Lady Carrow.”

She turned back to smile at him, a more genuine smile than the one she gave to Hermione.

“Others would do well to learn from your example,” he continued casually. “Perhaps you’ve heard how I recently had to discipline a member of this younger generation of the nobility.” He brushed at what might have been a speck of lint on his shoulder, before turning his piercing gaze onto her. His voice was just a little harder, the tiniest bit colder. “So crass, so disrespectful—to my Queen, and therefore to me. I sincerely hope I will not have to … give any further lessons. My patience does have limits.”

Lady Carrow’s face paled, her eyes widening. “I—I understand, Your Majesty.” Her voice was barely audible. Jerkily, she made a quick curtsy, avoiding further eye contact with either the King or the newly crowned Queen.

“Lady Carrow!” Ser Slughorn’s cheery voice boomed.

In her haste to confront the nasty woman, Hermione had forgotten he was there.

Ser Slughorn held out a hand to the lady, one foot turned up in the semblance of a bow. “Would you do me the honor of a turn about the dance floor?”

Under other circumstances, Hermione thought Lady Carrow would have turned up her nose in disdain at the frumpy older man. Instead, she seemed grateful for the excuse to leave His Majesty’s watchful presence.

“Of course, Ser Slughorn.” Her voice quavered. She quickly took his hand and let him lead her away.

Miraculously, no well-wishers appeared in their wake to try to claim the King’s attention.

Tom placed his hand over hers where she held onto his arm. It gave her the courage to say the question that was on the tip of her tongue.

“Would you really, Tom?” Her voice didn’t carry far, but she knew that he heard her. “To Lady Carrow?”

He didn’t look at her. But he also didn’t remove his hand from where it was slowly caressing her fingers. “I will always do what I must to achieve the results I require,” he said, gravely.

She tried not to think of Lady Carrow writhing in pain under the Cruciatus Curse. She may hate the woman, but she could never wish such a thing on anyone. “And if I asked you not to?”

She wanted to take back the question as soon as she asked it. It was silly to think she could influence his choices after only a few weeks. The silence between them stretched as the dancers whirled by laughing gaily.

“With every day that passes, Hermione,” he finally said, “I begin to believe I would give you whatever your heart desires.”

So saying, he lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to the inside of her gloved wrist. It sent a warmth coursing through her, anticipation of what his lips would soon feel like on her bare skin.

But she thought it would have been nicer if he’d at least smiled when he said the words that went along with the gesture.

* * *

Traditionally, an entourage of women would accompany the Ophidian bride as she retired to her room to prepare herself for her husband. There would be laughter, wine, and good-natured ribbing.

But this wasn’t a normal wedding, and Hermione had very few friends that she would want with her on such an occasion.

She took only one with her when she retired to the Queen’s suite.

Luna, resplendent in a pale yellow dress with a hundred flounces that seemed to resemble her long, curly hair, lounged in a chair beside the bed, watching as Pheme carefully helped Hermione out of her wedding dress.

“Her Majesty,” Pheme said, a title she’d already used a dozen times, having become enamored of the sound of it, “will be so pleased to know that Steward Aidos has permanently assigned Pheme to serve the Queen!”

At the word ‘serve,’ Hermione winced, but she quickly cleared the expression from her face to avoid trampling on the little elf’s elation.

“Pheme is so excited! Pheme will be a wonderful and loyal house-elf, and Her Majesty will be so happy to have Pheme’s help with her hair and her clothes and the shopping and all the babies!”

The champagne-colored gown was easily replaced with a soft nightdress of gold satin, and Hermione blushed at the mention of babies. Strangely, there had been no talk of bearing an heir to the Ophidian throne, but she supposed it would be expected of her eventually.

Talk of babies reminded her of something, though. “Pheme, I couldn’t help but think that if you accompany me frequently, you’ll have to spend much more time with Ioke, since he serves the King.”

At the mention of the King’s elf, Pheme paused in her efforts to reset Hermione’s hair into a more casual, but elegant, updo. Hermione could see her little face scrunch up in distaste.

“Now, Pheme,” Hermione said, amused, “he doesn’t seem so bad. The King obviously thinks very highly of him to have him placed in such a high position.”

Pheme scowled. “Ioke does not speak to Pheme. He stares at Pheme. Arrogant, he is. Thinks he is so important.” She harrumphed, a strangely irreverent sound coming from such an otherwise respectful elf. “Pheme is important now, too.”

Luna and Hermione exchanged small grins.

“Perhaps he is just shy,” Luna offered, having been apprised of the speculation about the two elves.

Pheme’s face indicated that she did not believe that to be the case. But she said nothing more as she left to see if the King was ready to have his bride escorted to him.

Alone now with just her childhood friend, Hermione looked at herself in the mirror. It was hard to believe that less than a month ago she was sitting at a desk at the Ministry wondering if she was ever going to make something of her life. Now she was married and would soon be ruling an entire country of wizards. Her life had changed drastically in such a short time.

Luna came to stand beside her, and the two girls looked into their reflections, making silly faces.

Hermione laughed, feeling some of the tension of the high-profile ceremonies finally begin to dissipate. She reached up to pat her hair, noting the soft curls framing her face, and thought that Pheme really did such marvelous work with it. No one else had ever understood her hair’s unique personality.

The Silver Crown had already been put away. It was only used for very formal occasions, and she hadn’t yet determined where it was supposed to be stored. The fancy wardrobe with the glass doors where she had been keeping a few important items seemed like the best place for it.

She turned away from the mirror, and took the Heart of Ophidia from where she’d set it on the small desk, and she placed it in its usual spot on the highest shelf, beside the crown that now rested there.

For a moment, she stared at it, still unable to put her finger on its magic. Was it a token? Was it a talisman? She felt such an affinity for it, a reluctance to set it aside, that had only gotten stronger since the ceremony earlier that evening.

She would ask Tom if he would tell her more about it. Tomorrow. Surely, he didn’t expect her to carry it around with her on their wedding night.

As she closed the glass doors, she saw in the reflection that Luna was still carefully watching her.

“It’s not too late, you know,” Luna said, her high voice chirping with optimism. “You can still run if you want to. I’d cover your back.”

Hermione laughed at the absurd picture of the two of them dashing through the corridors, her with her fancy nightrobe flowing behind her. Luna didn’t actively try to discourage her, but she occasionally brought up those same doubts they’d discussed those weeks ago in the Library of Ophidia, wanting to make absolutely certain that this new life was Hermione’s choice.

“Considering I’ve magically bound my soul in matrimony to Tom, and I’ve been crowned Queen in front of the entire Kingdom, we’ve probably passed the point of no return.”

Luna tilted her head, the expression in her eyes still solemn, not conceding the point. “Don’t forget the tattoo.”

They hadn’t mentioned the Mark of Ophidia that stood boldly on her forearm. It was plain to see during the ceremony, due to her sleeveless dress. She had not worn gloves, then. It had seemed prudent for the country to see that she was truly dedicated to them—that she had thrown off her allegiances to Brittania.

She looked at it now, and then at Luna’s unsmiling face. “You disapprove?”

With her fingers, Hermione traced over the edges of the pattern, following the serpent’s body as it coiled around the skull. She thought it felt a little bit warm. It was….comforting. No wonder she had seen so many people often tracing theirs through their sleeves.

“Every step you take binds you, and now you are well and truly tied to this course,” Luna said, resignedly. She sighed, glancing around the opulent room before returning to look at Hermione in her luxurious nightdress. With some sympathy, she said, “Ophidia is very wondrous. It seems to weave a spell around you. Even I feel a reluctance to return home to Brittania, and if it weren’t for missing my father, I might consider staying here just a little longer.”

Luna paused, and Hermione couldn’t help the sudden sensation that this would be the last time she would see Luna for quite a while. After Luna left in the morning, her last tie to her old life would be gone, and it would only be her and the Ophidians. Even the prospect of Astoria’s new friendship wasn’t enough to compete with the specter of loneliness that loomed on the horizon.

“Are you happy?” Luna asked.

Hermione had to consider that question carefully. She smiled. “Right at this moment, I think that I am.”

Biting her lip, Luna added, “Do you think are going to _be_ happy? Here in Ophidia? With the King?”

She smiled as she thought of Tom. “You know, Luna, I really think I will be. Here in Ophidia. Here with Tom. I feel like I belong here. And at the very least, I know that my life will mean something.”

Luna took a deep breath and then just nodded.

Feeling unusually emotional, Hermione reached out to enfold Luna in a hug. “Thank you for staying as long as you did,” Hermione whispered into her hair. “You have always been a wonderful friend. And thank you for helping me to… to reach my destiny—whatever that may be, here in Ophidia.”

In a voice that shimmered with tears, Luna said, “I truly hope it brings you all the happiness and love that you deserve.”

A soft sound interrupted the women, and they looked down to see Pheme waiting to escort Hermione from her rooms to the King’s—the ancient tradition of marriage.

“Give my best to Harry and Ron, and tell my parents that I will be in touch as soon as I can,” Hermione reminded Luna, quickly dashing away the moisture at the corners of her eyes.

“We’ll all miss you,” Luna replied.

“Of course,” Pheme scoffed. “Who would not miss having Her Majesty? But she belongs to Ophidia now, so Brittania will just have to fend for itself.” She nodded her little head with such finality that both women laughed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, almost to the very end! It’s time for the Final chapter, and then the short Epilogue. This has been one exciting ride, and I can’t wait to hear all of your thoughts. Just a heads-up, this is the last chapter from Hermione’s POV. For the ending, we’ll get to see inside Tom’s head for the very first time. Prepare yourself.
> 
> S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)


	21. Chapter 21

The room was bright with moonlight, even so close to the dawn. Had he been inclined to look behind him, the King could have clearly seen his wife’s body lying quietly in his bed. Instead, he let the door close behind him as he exited without a backwards glance.

The wedding had gone perfectly, a testament to Steward Aidos’ conscientious planning and oversight. Hermione had been lovely, glowing with an inner light he couldn’t help but admire.

The wedding night had gone more than perfectly. She had been everything generous and loving; he could almost, almost forget his duty.

Which was why he was leaving the King’s Suite.

Under normal circumstances, he would have stayed, but he felt an uncharacteristic restlessness and didn’t think he could stand to remain in the room. The quiet corridors gave him room to think.

His wife was. . . not what he had expected.

Even after he had intruded on Miss Lovegood’s mind that night of her trial, in order to find out everything she knew about her fellow Brittanian—a trespass that was easily concealed in the Obliviation spell—he had still been surprised over the reality that was Hermione Granger.

She was different from other witches. Clever, strong, generous, kind. She made him laugh. She intrigued him.

She was beautiful. But it wasn’t because of her milky skin, or her wild hair or even the feminine curve of her body. No, it was the way her eyes lit up when she learned something new. It was the flush on her cheeks when she performed advanced magic that was beyond the capabilities of all but the tiniest percentage of wizards in the world.

He’d found he enjoyed talking to her. He especially liked challenging her beliefs, watching as her clever mind ticked through the possible options and reached the same conclusions that he had. Of all the witches he’d ever met, she seemed the most capable of understanding him. He found the feeling intoxicating.

It perplexed him that she was Muggle-born. Muggle-borns were inferior to true wizards in every way. Or so he’d been taught. Or so he’d always been led to believe.

Yet, Hermione was very powerful. Her magic was not just the equal of Ophidian witches, but it far surpassed most of them. Lady Carrow for instance, that insufferable cow, could never hope to come close to Hermione’s skill.

Could the infusion of wild magic that produced Muggle-borns actually produce a more powerful wizard? If that were true, it would explain why he, as the child of a Muggle-born, was the most powerful Marvolo to be born in several generations. Had they misunderstood Muggle-borns this whole time? Could he owe much more to his Muggle-born father than he had previously expected?

It certainly bore thinking about. It was enough to make him rethink the place that Muggle-borns had in his plans.

He almost wished he’d had time to run a few tests.  
  
But he firmly pushed those thoughts out of his mind, ignoring the brief shout of a child’s laughter that echoed in his mind. He had no time, and no need, for children.

His mother’s words, via portrait, to Hermione had been a cruel, but necessary, reminder of her purpose in his life.

Finally, he reached the Queen’s suite and pushed open the doors carelessly.

He noted with a sigh that the drapes were still drawn shut in her bedroom. A tiny thing, but it could have perhaps made a difference.

In the darkness, he easily crossed over to the glass shelves. The Heart of Ophidia was dark, but he could feel it. Picking it up, he walked back to the windows, and with a wave of his hand, the drapes slid open.

The effect on the Heart was not immediate. The crystal flame glowed slowly, images of blue fire flickering across its surface. As it got brighter, a crack formed in the top, and the edges folded downwards, like a flower opening to the sun.

The water formed a small pool, but as the moonlight touched the surface, it brightened with rainbow lights. The small pebbles that sat just under the surface began to glitter.

He’d never really cared before whether any of his wives solved the riddle of the Heart of Ophidia, had never bothered to check up on them, or wait to see if they would form the bond. Of course, all of his wives had been Ophidians, so they’d already been pledged to the Great Lady. And his purpose for them had not included them being the true Queen of Ophidia.

He had been unsurprised when they failed.

With Hermione, it was the first time he’d actually begun to think that someone would succeed. It was the first time he’d actually thought that he might _want_ someone to solve the riddle.

It would put a kink in his plans, as a true bonded Queen of Ophidia had incredible power and protections. But it would be a small price to pay.

For the first time, he’d met a woman that he could see at his side for the plans he had for the future. For the first time, he considered he might actually have to put another throne beside his.

And he’d discovered he wasn’t completely appalled by the idea.

More than that, with time running out before the wedding, he’d given her every advantage—encouraged her to take the Mark, even directly discussed the Heart of Ophidia.

“Your Majesty,” Steward Aidos’ voice came from behind him.

He didn’t turn, he knew what she was going to say.

“Her Majesty is. . . has been. . . prepared. Pheme is with her. Awaiting your. . . orders, Master.”

It was the first time he’d ever heard his Steward’s voice waver. Since she had taken the position upon his ascending to the throne, she had been steadfast and true. She didn’t remember the other times he’d Obliviated her; but he remembered, and not even when his mother had crossed the veil had she been this emotional.

He closed the Heart, the rainbow colors fading as he brought it out of the moonlight and placed it into the pocket of his robes. He could still feel the connection to Ophidia. It was always with him, faint but consistent. When he opened the Heart, he could sense it much more vividly.

He tried to suppress his disappointment that there wasn’t a second connection, a Queen bound to him and to the land.

With steady steps, neither rushed nor dawdling, he walked the silent corridors to his destination, the Throne Room.

Inside, directly below the throne, a tiny house-elf sat crying.

Without the fountain in the middle, the Mark of Ophidia on the marble floors could once again be clearly seen, lit up by the moonlight that filtered through the restored stained glass of the oculus.

His footsteps rang on the floor as he walked, not over to the throne, but to the display cases against the wall.

He looked at them, much as Hermione had that night of her trial. She hadn’t known just what she was looking at.

It had been such a long time since he’d even thought about those cases. Discussing them had brought the memories to the fore. He felt almost nostalgic as he gazed upon them.

The journal, in the bookcase that Hermione had loved.

The locket, hidden amongst an elaborate display of valuable jewelry.

The diadem, showcased to effect among the Marvolo crown jewels.

The golden cup, among the many golden treasures of the dragon’s hoard.

The snake, the most cunning of all of the wild animals.

The case with his parents’ rings was the only one that ever caused him a twinge of pain.

His mother had been the first. The blood connection they shared meant that the Horcrux he made by killing her would be that much more powerful.

When he came into his full power, and it was clear it was time for him to take the throne, she had accepted her fate with dignity. Enthusiasm, even. She had been so excited to see her son finally walk the path that had been set out for him generations ago, to finally fulfill the family’s destiny.

He’d killed her, an act that ripped his soul apart and allowed him to make his first Horcrux. Not knowing how long it would take him to recover fully from the act, he’d intended to allow sufficient recovery time before killing his father to make his second Horcrux.

His mother had failed to tell him, however, about the love spell that she’d had on his father. Looking back, he realized now why his mother had been so adamant about him controlling his Legilimens spells. But he’d never thought to look into his mother’s mind, and he’d certainly never suspected that his parents had been anything less than in love.

It seemed she’d begun to believe that Tom Sr truly loved her, and had not seen fit to warn her son. Her death had broken the spell.

Horrified at the years he’d spent helplessly in love with his own wife, and even more horrified at the plans his wife and son had to follow in Ptolemy’s footsteps, Tom Sr had killed himself before he could be used as the pathway to another Horcrux.

Tom Jr had been horrified. Horrified at the secret his mother had kept, at the loss of the connection he needed to make his next Horcrux, and at the fact that the man he’d looked up to for so long had turned out to be weak—exactly as weak as everyone always said Muggle-borns were.

Too scared to face the truth, too weak to accept the facts, the Muggle-born from Brittania had chosen to kill himself rather than be used. A waste.

The blood connection couldn’t be replicated. With the last of his kin dead, Tom did the next best thing. He married. The bond of magical matrimony linked their souls and their magic together, making a tie strong enough that breaking it would make a very powerful Horcrux.

Bellatrix had been ludicrous, but he hadn’t had to be married to her for more than the single night he needed to perform the wedding ceremony and the Horcrux ritual.

To his surprise, he’d discovered that the linking of his soul with another actually made his soul—previously divided—practically whole again. After killing Bella, he experienced none of the madness and the instability that had been documented by his ancestors who had previously tried to follow in Ptolemy’s footsteps.

Ptolemy may have chosen each of his wives to make his Horcruxes out of a sense of ego, or even an aesthetic parallel. But it turned out to be the only reason he was able to make as many as four and still retain his sanity.

It was no doubt Bellatrix that Ser Slughorn remembered. The Obliviation spell Tom had performed to erase the marriage had been the first of its kind, and he had been younger, not as strong; his connection to Ophidia not as deep.

The spell had held all of these years, but if Ser Slughorn could recall enough to say something when he was in his cups, then others might begin to remember as well.

By the time he’d married and killed his other wives, he had gotten much better at performing the ritual and the Obliviation spell. But they’d never yielded another Horcrux as strong and powerful as the one Bella’s death had made.

Thinking there must be a connection, a tangible reason, he’d paused in his serial marriages and taken the time to research. He discovered that the strength of the Horcrux was directly related to the power of the victim.

Ptolemy had only been able to make four Horcruxes, and none of his other descendants had been strong enough to survive the rituals. Ptolemy’s research—the scrolls carefully preserved in the secret room accessible only by one of Marvolo blood— showed that the ideal number was seven.

Seven Horcruxes to guarantee immortality.

He was determined his seventh and last one would be the strongest. Hence, the competition.

The competition that had brought Hermione to him. Hermione, who was brilliant and strong, who would make an incredibly strong Horcrux.

Or an incredibly powerful Queen. If only she could have solved the riddle.

“Master?” His Steward once again broke into his thoughts, drawing his attention back to the matter at hand.

Reluctantly, he turned away from the cases, which not only held the products of his labors, but served as a memorial—a tombstone, really—for the women whose deaths had produced them.

As he crossed the Mark of Ophidia, he gave very little thought to the bodies that were buried beneath it. All of his attention was now on the body that had been retrieved from his bedroom, and was lying on the floor, prepared for her final resting place.

The house-elf, Pheme, was still sitting close by, crying noisily. She had been particularly attached to her Mistress. For a few moments more, he would let her grieve. He thought, with what almost passed as compassion, that it would be a relief of her pain when he Obliviated the memory away.

“Wh-where is Mistress to rest?” Pheme asked, her eyes on the chestnut curls she’d carefully coiffed for a royal wedding, not twelve hours ago, and which now lay loosely about Hermione’s shoulders.

If it wasn’t for the pallor of her bloodless skin, one might think she was merely sleeping.

He’d indulged himself with her almost too long—acutely aware of the moon’s progress across the sky—enjoying the feel of her arms around him, the heady feeling of having a whole soul once more, the warmth of her body.  When she’d closed those beautiful brown eyes, sleepily satisfied, he knew he could put it off no longer.

He had promised her no pain, and he was skilled enough and determined enough that the only one who had felt any pain was himself—when her death ripped his soul apart, as required. She would never open those eyes again.

“With me,” Riddle answered Pheme, gently. “She will be placed beneath my throne, and I will guard her as I guard my people, my country, my heritage, and the Great Lady.”

Pheme’s sniffles subsided a little bit, as she clearly thought this grandiose statement was appropriately indicative of her Mistress’s importance.

With a few spells from his yew wand, a place was made beneath the marble under his dais, and his Queen’s body was very carefully placed there.

In his other hand, he carried Hermione’s vinewood wand. He’d originally planned on making a case for his final Horcrux, as he had all of the others. But he didn’t want it showcased behind glass; he rather thought he would keep it close.

As he climbed the dais and sat on his throne, he placed the wand onto the arm of the throne, under his left hand. Wordlessly, he had the pattern on the wand travel around the throne until the arms and legs and the high back were etched with the same design of vines and leaves. Even if someone managed to discover the truth about his Horcruxes, and even if they managed to break through the impenetrable wards that he’d placed around his cases, they’d never discover this last Horcrux. It would remain his most closely held secret.

Settled at last, he took a deep breath and removed the Heart of Ophidia from his pocket.

The last of the moonlight was in the sky; it was almost dawn. He’d taken the longest amount of time possible, putting off the inevitable.

With his wand to his Mark, he tugged on the magic that connected him to everyone else who bore the Mark, within Ophidia as well as without. For the most part, they slept soundly in their beds, not knowing how their King siphoned the tiniest bit of magic off of them.

It pleased him, as it always did, to feel his Army—ready, waiting. It would soon be time for them to act.

Since Hermione had been from Brittania, he was going to need much more magic, though, and a much larger network. With the Heart of Ophidia still in his hand, he closed his eyes, concentrating on the bond inside him that connected him to the magical power of Ophidia.

The Great Lady was bigger than just Ophidia. But hundreds of years of providing a home to wizards and witches had woken up that one small part of the land. Through that part he could reach the magic that slept in the earth, the air, the fire, and the water—everywhere the moonlight touched as it trekked across the sky.

And the Great Lady stirred just enough to answer his call. She was reluctant. She’d had an awareness of Hermione, might have even chosen her as a Queen if Riddle hadn’t needed the Horcrux. But Hermione was gone now, and the Great Lady had no reason to deny the King his request for power.

As the last of the moonlight faded from Ophidia’s borders, drowned out by the rising sun, Riddle cast his spell.

More than a simple Obliviation spell, all memory of Hermione Jean Granger—every word, every interaction, every test score, everything she’d ever accomplished—was erased. Until he was the only one left to remember the brightest witch of the age. . . who had still not been bright enough to solve that final riddle.

He sighed, disappointed in himself for being disappointed. She was only a Mudblood, what had he really expected?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to the end. There’s only the Epilogue left. I’d like to thank everyone who’s stuck with the story this far. I’m #sorrynotsorry to break your hearts. It’s been an incredible learning experience, and I’m so excited to have finished my first novel-length story.
> 
> I’d like to make special thank yous to everyone who contributed to this story. There’s too many people to name who gave me wonderful support, including the Inkers and the Admins of the Tomione fanfics group. But first off, I’d like to thank DelicateScholar, who motivated me to do this story and provided a lot of alpha support in the early planning days. I wouldn’t have taken this project on at all if it wasn’t for her. My husband, who let me talk out all the nitty gritty details, and when I told him I needed a riddle, he wrote me one on the back of a Del Taco napkin. For three months, he endured my capricious Writer’s Moods and made sure I had proper lighting and atmosphere and meals. For three more months, he patiently supported me through hours of ‘writing’ that resulted in hardly any words. DarkDaisies, who cares not one whit about the Tomione ship, but who kept me company on some long nights when I was anxious and writers-blocked, and had no one else I could go to. She grounded me on those nights I felt abandoned.
> 
> And most importantly, my fantastic beta, brandinm05. I would be absolutely lost without her incredible insights and her cheerleading and her fine-tooth comb. She put some back-breaking work into this story, despite her incredibly busy real-life schedule. I’m so grateful for all the ways she’s polished this story so it could shine.


	22. Epilogue

_~One Month After~_

The Swiss Alps were beautiful but cold, even in the springtime. The two women trudging up the side of the mountain past the tree line were well bundled up in warm Muggle clothing. They also had Warming Charms on them, which is why they appeared not to feel the biting sting of the wind.

Long blonde tendrils of hair peeked out of the hood of one of the women. “I feel certain that those marks we saw back there were signs that the Crumple-Horned Snorkack may actually be nesting in this area. I just want to check around the ridge to make sure we didn’t miss anything.”

“Of course,” her friend said, her luxurious fur-lined hood hiding her face. “Might as well be thorough. But then I’d like to go back to the village where—aagghh!”

“Astoria? What happened?” The blonde peered anxiously at her friend who was yelling and clutching at her arm. She tried to help her take off her jacket to see what was wrong with the arm. “Astoria?”

“Luna, I—I have to go. Argh! I can—feel him calling.” Astoria tried to wrench herself away from Luna, stumbling wildly in the snow.

“Who? What’s going on? Who’s calling?”

“It hurts! I just—I have to go now!” Black smoke engulfed her, rising quickly up into the clear blue sky, and then it was gone, headed south.

“Astoria? Astoria!” Luna shouted for her friend, trying to understand what had just happened.

* * *

 

_~Three Months After~_

“Harry,” the red-headed wizard said, pointing at a small glass cylinder with a flying figurine inside of it. The labelling on the side said, ‘Museum of Quidditch in Lagus, Ophidia.’ “Where did you get that?”

Harry pushed back the shock of heavy black hair that tended to lay across his forehead, and looked at the object in question. “Oh, a friend gave it to me. Why?”

The other man frowned, tapping his finger on his chin. “Do you remember which friend?”

Harry hesitated, doing a double-take to look at it more closely. “Now that you mention it, Ron. . . I don’t.”

“I have one just like it,” Ron said, still seeming confused. “I seem to remember a friend gave it to me, too, but I can’t remember who it was.”

“Do we know someone who went to the Museum of Quidditch in Ophidia?” Harry picked up the cylinder, shaking it and causing the little flying Quidditch player to suddenly have to dodge confetti and colored paper.

Ron considered it for another moment before he shrugged, unwrapping the sandwich he was having for lunch. “It must have been before the Capital shut down. A shame, I think I’d have liked to go with them.”

Harry snorted at that. “You only want to go now because you know we can’t, since we’re not Ophidians.”

“Maybe after they start letting trade go through again, we can get our citizenship visas and go.” It was clear Ron thought it would only be a matter of time.

Harry, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure. He poked his head around the door to peer down the corridor, and then he very quietly shut it, casting a Muffliato around the office, just in case. “Ron,” he said, hesitantly, “do you really think that Brittania will just submit to Ophidia’s demands?”

“Maybe.” The big bite of the sandwich that was tucked into his cheek made him seem comical as he thought about Harry’s insinuation. “Seems that way, doesn’t it?” Slowly, he chewed, before he asked, “You think people are going to fight it?”

With a serious look on his face, Harry said, “Don’t you think they should?”

* * *

 

_~Six Months After~_

“Dear, we have to go.” The man peered anxiously out the window of their sitting room at a street that appeared empty.

His wife answered from the corridor where she stood in a doorway peering into another room. “I know, I just…I just need a moment.”

He sighed, crossing over to her. “We don’t have a moment. The Resistance said they would only be able to get us out if we left right away. There’s nothing in that room.”

The woman turned to look up at him just as his arms came around her. She leaned her head on his shoulder, her unruly brown curls tickling his face. “I know. . . I just can’t help feeling like there’s something missing. Something really important that I can’t leave behind. And I stand here and I look at this empty room, and I just know if I look long enough, that I’ll remember what it is.”

Chocolate-brown eyes met her green ones as he tipped her face up to look at him. “We have what we need—each other—and that’s all we’ve ever needed. Just the two of us.” He pressed a light kiss to the tip of her nose.

Reluctantly, she let him guide her towards the front door. “Are you sure The Resistance can find someplace safe for us? How can we trust them? They have the same powers as those O-O-Ophidians.” Her tongue stumbled over the foreign word. “How do we know they aren’t going to try to enslave us, too?”

He ran his hands through his thinning hair and said, “We just have to trust them. When I snuck into those meetings uptown, I listened to that Potter fellow talk about his plans. And I have to say, he doesn’t send a chill down my back like when we heard that broadcast by High King Riddle. Potter’s group offered us a way out. That’s enough for me.”

There was a very low knock at the door. They opened it to find a small blonde woman with a strangely dreamy look on her face. Was this supposed to be their contact?

“Hope rises like a phoenix,” she said, her head tilted to look at him.

“From the ashes of shattered dreams,” he finished for her.

She nodded at his answer. “Mr and Mrs Granger, are you ready to go?” She walked inside and with a flourish of her wand, she shrank all of their luggage and placed it into a small bag that she held.

Mrs Granger’s eyes boggled at seeing magic performed for the first time. They’d been hearing all about it on the telly, but this was truly amazing.

Mr Granger peered out the door and noticed that there were no vehicles in sight. He was reluctant to walk down the street with a stranger in broad daylight. “Where’s your transportation?”

The woman smiled at them, putting the bag around her. “I’m it, I’m afraid. I’m taking you to a new location, where you’ll catch the first Port-Key to Australia. We’ve been trying to set up a safe house there.” Briskly, she waved them closer to her, grabbing each of them by the hand. “Close your eyes, I’ve heard that sometimes helps with the nausea.”

With a crack, they Disapparated.

* * *

 

“Sire,” Lucius Malfoy said, reluctantly interrupting the High King when he was sitting in informal council with his most loyal followers. “We’ve received a report of an illegal Apparition with an unregistered wand.” As he crossed the marble floor with the Mark of Ophidia, he conjured the parchments with the location and the faces of those who had gotten away. “The wizard who saw them says he knows where they went. Shall I send a team of Death Eaters after them?”

Riddle took the pictures, staring at their faces—at the curly hair and the warm brown eyes—and the names written underneath them. For several moments, he didn’t speak. When he did, it was to ask for a status report on the Resistance members.

They were calling themselves The Order or something like that.

Ser Malfoy was very clear in reporting that every Order member was accounted for, all of his Death Eaters were in position, and that at any time they could stamp out the tiny Brittanian Resistance. They were simply awaiting Riddle’s orders.

“Are you including Harry Potter? He’s the one that has been fomenting rebellion, am I correct?”

“Yes, Sire,” Ser Malfoy said with a bow. “On both counts. We have an entire team ready to take him down.”

“Do it,” Riddle ordered. “All of them.” He tossed the parchments onto the table and turned to walk up the dais to his throne. “Leave the Apparators be. They are unimportant, and I’m not going to chase down a couple of Muggles.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Ser Malfoy walked backward, bowing again. “It will be done, Your Majesty.” Before he left, he added, “Honor to the Great Lady and the King.”

Seated, Riddle stroked the arm of his throne, the tips of his fingers grazing the vine pattern — a casual gesture that the Council was becoming very familiar with. “Honor to the Great Lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GLOSSARY of Some Greek Names/Terms Used
> 
> Aidos: spirit of modesty, reverence and respect.  
> Agon: spirit of contest.  
> Athanasius: meaning Immortal. Commonly Anglicized as Arthur or Tom.  
> Eusebeia: spirit of piety, loyalty, duty, and filial respect.  
> Grasidi: meaning Grass.  
> Horkos: spirit of oaths.  
> Ioke: spirit of pursuit in battle.  
> Ophidia: snakes; scientific classification of snakes.  
> Pheme: spirit of rumour, report, and gossip.

**Author's Note:**

> S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)


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